Archive of Our Own

This fanfiction is hosted on Archive of Our Own, where you can read it for free. If you’re reading this on a different website, it was posted there without the author’s consent.

Dick’s groggy when he comes to. He blinks blearily, his eyelashes clumping together. There’s something off about this picture that he’s seeing, but he isn’t quite there yet to put all the pieces together. His eyes feel crusty, and even thinking about moving seems like a bad idea. Dick does so anyway.

He lifts his arm – or tries to – only to find that it’s heavier than lead. He knows it’s there, but he can barely feel it. A sense of overwhelming exhaustion fills his body the moment he tries to look downwards, just to make extra sure all his limbs are in place, and he closes his eyes.

Dick’s probably imagining the warm, damp cloth that runs over his face. He’s probably imagining the soothing noises he hears. A JLA nurse wouldn’t do that, and he’s taken a break from the Titans for a few months now.

But the more Dick tries to think, the more welcoming the blackness looks, and really, he has no choice but to give in to its call.

The next time Dick comes to is very much like the first. Only this time, he isn’t alone. Someone is bustling around him, fiddling with machines that’re distantly beeping bits of information, fixing up the IV line that Dick can feel attached to his arm.

He tries to say something, but he’s shushed.

“You’re going to be alright, chum,” the voice says. A warm, familiar hand places itself onto Dick’s forehead, as though checking his temperature. “Let your body rest. I’m very proud of you, Dick. Alfred even let me buy ice cream for when you wake up.”

There’s something… off about this whole thing. Dick fades in and out, jerking to consciousness every time he forcibly reminds himself to stay awake. He can’t even remember why he had been in Gotham, but the only reason Bruce would be here when he’s injured is if he’d gotten hurt in this city.

There are footsteps away from Dick, and the sound of low murmurs in the hallway, but Dick loses the battle before he can even think about straining his ears to listen in.

It’s a sunny morning when Dick finally opens his eyes and is able to stay awake. His body doesn’t quite feel that same sort of bone-deep exhaustion that it did those times he’d woken before.

Dick doesn’t sit upright just yet. His eyes flit over the room he’s in, because it’s… his own. To the left is his bookshelf, with every book he’s ever bought or been gifted placed carefully on it. There are picture frames littering the walls, with himself and Bruce and Alfred, some with his friends. His Flying Graysons poster hangs on the wall, right where he’d left it. He hasn’t seen it in much too long – the last time Dick had seen him, Alfred had told him that he’d put it away so it wouldn’t get damaged. Have they brought it out now, so he’d feel better once he woke up?

It’s a strange sense of déjà vu to be back here, in this bed, surrounded by so many of his childhood memories. The last time Dick was here had been when he’d been shot by the Joker, and he’d had to deal with Bruce’s endless fretting over the most mundane things before Bruce finally told him that he couldn’t be Robin anymore.

They’d teamed up since then, but Dick hadn’t had cause to stay at the Manor overnight. He hadn’t even set foot upstairs, their mission briefings typically occurring in Gotham, or the Cave at most. Bruce had always been a cold, cold mask, stumbling over his words the second they got a bit too close for his comfort.

It even smelled the same. Dick stops taking in deep breaths the moment he realises what he’s doing, embarrassed at such an obvious display. His homesickness hadn’t been bad, not really – he’d had the Titans, and who are just as much Dick’s family as Bruce and Alfred are. But these past few months since he’d taken leave from the team have been… lonely.

Dick’s eyes fall on the stack of stuffed toys sitting piled upon the reading chair, and his brows furrow. Those must all be at least a few years old, because he’d slowly but surely put away all his stuffed animals, until only Zitka remained, though not at the Manor. He blinked when he saw her familiar shape, right at the centre of the pile.

How long had he been out? And why had he been out? Had it been bad enough for Bruce or Alfred to go to Dick’s apartment and get Zitka? That’s the only explanation there is for all of this. A serious injury during a joint mission, and a scared Bruce.

Dick moves his body slowly, starting from his toes. He wriggles them, and then moves his feet, rolling his ankles and squeezing his knees. His fingers work fine, though they feel rather stiff, and his torso is definitely sporting a lot of bruising and probably some broken ribs. But apart from that, Dick can’t find anything wrong with his body.

He needs to sit up. He has to see, walk around. An itching has sprouted inside himself, a little tingling in his joints that tells him he needs to get up and move, release some energy. Dick shifts his elbows underneath him, and pushes himself up.

His ribs had definitely been broken at some point. Maybe that caused other issues? Dick can very clearly remember the time Bruce broke a rib and it punctured one of his lungs. But surely he’d be feeling a lot worse if something that drastic had happened. Dick bends over to turn off the saline solution being intravenously pumped into him, and he turns off the heart monitor before taking off the clip from his finger.

There’s no dizziness when Dick stands up, and that confuses him. His head feels perfectly fine, though a little hazy. He can’t entirely remember anything from the last… well, he can’t remember anything recent. There’s a calendar hanging over his desk, which has positioned in the centre a brand new sketchbook and some basic utensils. Dick has never been more confused in his life.

The calendar is positioned to June, which is a relief, because it’d been June the last time Dick had checked. He lets out a breath he doesn’t even realise he’d been holding, and then scans the place for a working phone or computer.

Nothing.

Dick’s wearing hospital grade scrubs, so his own pockets are clearly out of the question. He walks over to the closet, because maybe they’d put his clothes in there, but it’s all his old clothes, things he hadn’t brought with him when he’d packed in a rush.

They don’t even smell musty. Had Alfred washed them again now that Dick is here to recuperate, or had he washed them regularly, just in case Dick spent the night or needed to change into something? Dick doesn’t want to focus on the latter, so he quickly strips out of the scrubs and into sweatpants and a hoodie he’d realised about four months ago he’d left behind in his rush.  

It smells like the Manor. It smells like home, though home was… no longer what it’d once been. Dick had felt all sorts of wrong footed since he’d woken up in this room, but now it’s like waking up from a long dream, as though the past year had never happened.

He needs to find someone. And then he can go home. Or maybe he’ll head to the Tower tonight. Dick doesn’t want to be alone, not after the confusion of waking up here in his childhood bedroom, and the others had told him that he’ll always be a Titan, always welcome. Maybe he’ll call Donna or Wally.

Dick has only just stepped out into the hallway when he hears footsteps behind him. Turning around, he sees Bruce.

“Dick.” Bruce is clearly surprised too. Dick watches his face light up in relief, and that’s probably the only reason he doesn’t immediately demand an explanation. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Dick responds, unsure of what to say to that. “Woke up just now.”

“How do you feel?” Bruce’s eyes are intense as they scan Dick. It’s something he’s always done, checking over Robin for injuries or Dick when he fell off something, but somehow, this feels different. Maybe Dick just isn’t used to having an adult around like this anymore.

“I feel good,” he says. “What happened?”

Bruce’s eyes snap to his. “You don’t remember?”

Dick shrugs, not wanting to admit to it. “A little bit,” he says. “Just a bit hazy right now. You know how it is.”

It looks like a mental struggle is happening within Bruce as he forcibly stifles the Batman part of himself and smiles just the slightest, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I do know how it is,” he says, and with that, Dick’s insides are flooded with a warmth he hasn’t felt since leaving the Tower. “C’mon, let’s go down to the kitchen. You must be hungry.”

Dick hadn’t been before Bruce had brought it up, but now his stomach growls. That’s strange, he finds himself thinking. He normally isn’t hungry after recovering from an injury – this is probably the first time he’s woken up like that and not felt nauseas.

Dick finds his eyes roaming over the Manor as they step through the hallways. His feet are bare, but it’s June, and he’s wearing enough warm clothes that the cool hardwood floor feels nice. He notes the changes since he’s been gone: some picture frames removed, some old vases brought back that Dick vaguely remembers Alfred moving to the attic after he’d accidentally broken one challenging Bruce to a handstand competition. Maybe they decided they no longer had to child-proof the house when there’s no child.

“Where’s Alfred?”

Dick had expected the old man to be waiting in the kitchen. He hadn’t realise just how much he was looking forward to hugging him until now.

“He’s gone to the market,” Bruce says. “He’ll be back soon, don’t worry.” And then, the strangest thing of all: Bruce turns to face Dick and gives him a smile.

Dick stares. “You feeling okay, B?” he asks. Surely Bruce can’t be acting like this over a few broken ribs and a hit to the head that hadn’t even resulted in a concussion. Was Dick dying?

“I’m fine,” Bruce responds. “Better now that you’re up. Now… sit. I’ll make you something to eat.” Dick frowns at that, and Bruce huffs a laugh. “I’m just reheating, chum.”

“That doesn’t fill me with great confidence, either,” Dick says, but he sits gingerly on a barstool and watches Bruce.

There are a few bandages on his body, but that’s nothing out of place when Dick had also gotten injured. It’s a sort of given that if one person gets injured, the other will no doubt be bearing something similar. Or at least, it was mostly true of the Titans. Dick knows that Batman had gotten far more scrapes and bruises than Robin ever had, not counting a couple of exceptions.

Bruce is practically humming to himself as he takes out containers from the fridge, but true to his word, he only reheats Alfred’s shepherd’s pie. Dick starts salivating within thirty seconds of it spinning around in the microwave. It feels like he hasn’t eaten in days.

“Hey, what’s the date?” he asks as he finds cutlery.

“June nineteenth,” Bruce responds easily, but Dick halts in his tracks.

“The nineteenth?” he says. “But…”

Bruce turns to him, his face sombre. “Dick,” he says, his voice having lost that strange lightness that it’d had before. “I didn’t want to tell you this until you’d gotten some food in you, and some more rest, but… you were hit in the head pretty badly. Today’s the first day you’ve woken up properly.”

Dick’s frown doesn’t ease. “But,” he says, sitting back down on the barstool. “I feel fine.”

Bruce places the plate in front of him, and Dick can’t help but dig in it immediately. The smell is wafting throughout the entire kitchen, and his stomach is growling like a maniac.

Bruce nods. “And you have no idea how glad I am that you do, but it doesn’t change the fact that you were hurt, and you need to take it easy.”

A wave of dizziness hits Dick the moment he’s swallowed down a bite, and he has to blink rapidly to fight back the black spots that’re clouding his vision. His stomach grumbles at him, and he hurriedly shoves another forkful into his mouth, hoping it’s just a case of stomach acid.

“Dick?”

There’s a glass of water in front of him, and Dick grabs it and chugs it down quickly. He doesn’t know what happened – he’d been feeling perfectly fine this whole time, completely clear-headed and everything, and now it’s like he’s been hit over the head.

“B, I think I’m gonna—”

Dick doesn’t even get the entire sentence out, but something in his face must have gotten across his message clear enough, because there’s a bucket between his knees at the perfect time. Dick throws up mostly bile, and two barely swallowed bites of Alfred’s pie. He’s left dry heaving as his stomach contracts, trying to get rid of its contents.

When he finally leans back in the barstool, Dick almost falls off it. Bruce’s hand is there, steadying him, warm and solid at his back. Dick closes his eyes, trying to stop the world from spinning.

“Let’s move you to the couch,” Bruce suggests, and Dick can only nod along.

And then it’s as though he loses time for a little bit, because he suddenly blinks his eyes open and he’s lying on the couch. There’s a blanket draped over him, and Dick stares at it for a moment. It’s his blanket, from his second birthday at the Manor. Alfred had painstakingly crocheted it in Robin colours, and his name is stitched into the side.

But it’s very clearly meant for a child of ten, and a small one at that. This only somewhat covers Dick’s lap and legs. What’s Bruce aiming for here, comfort? There have been plenty of blankets after this – like the one Dick had regularly used during their movie nights, or even a shock blanket. Dick had been so very careful with this one because of the amount of effort Alfred had put into it that he’d barely ever used it.

“Bruce?” he asks slowly. To his surprise, his throat is raspy.

“Good, you’re awake.” Bruce appears from around the corner, holding a bottle of medicine in his hands. Dick grimaces instinctively at the sight. “I called Leslie, and she said to give you this.”

“What is it?” Dick asks. He expects Bruce to hand it to him, like Bruce has always handed him the cup after measuring it out, but this time, Bruce keeps it in his hand.

“It’s for the nausea,” Bruce explains.

The nausea? Dick has only ever seen pills for nausea, especially for people his age. “Can I see?”

Bruce hands over the bottle with only a moment’s hesitation. It’s unlabelled, which Dick finds both irritating and strange – Bruce has drilled into him that an unlabelled bottle is the first step to an accident. Dick brings it to his nose, but the moment he takes a whiff of the bottle, his head spins, and he almost drops it.

Bruce swoops in, plucking it out of his fingers. “You’re still shaky,” he says. “But that’s to be expected, with how weak your body is right now.”

Dick’s fingers grip the cushions of the couch as he fights down the urge to gag. His stomach is roiling, an ocean inside his body, and he doesn’t know what he did to cause it to do so.

“Here, take this.”

Dick’s eyes opened in alarm as Bruce’s hand cupped his chin, holding his head in place gently as he placed the cup of medicine to Dick’s lips. Dick had no choice but to open his mouth – moving his head back or trying to speak would almost certainly spill the contents of the medicine cup.

The cool liquid is unlike anything he’d ever tasted, though there’s a lingering taste of raspberry. Dick swallows it down, but it keeps on coming, and for a moment he panics thinking he’ll choke, but then Bruce eases his grip on Dick’s mouth and moves back.

“There’s a good lad,” he says. A handkerchief appears out of nowhere while Dick’s still trying to process what just happened, and dabs at his mouth.

Dick flinches backwards. “What’re you doing?” he says, and Bruce has the audacity to look hurt, as though he hasn’t been acting like a psychopath.

Bruce tilts his head to the side. “Helping you,” he says. “You’re a grown man now, Dick, and I respect that, but please… you’ve been unconscious for a long time. And I… worry.”

It’s the most Dick remembers Bruce ever admitting to personal feelings. Hell, it’s probably the first time he’s spoken about Dick’s independence in a positive light. But there’s still a prickling under Dick’s skin he can’t quite get rid of.

He plasters a smile on his face and wonders who he should call to get him out of here.

The next two days pass quite similarly. Dick wakes for breakfast, and takes a dose of medicine afterwards. Alfred is still not there – something about his sister being taken ill quite unexpectedly, and having to take care of her child while she recuperates. He tries to call him, to check in and see how they’re all doing, but Alfred doesn’t pick up.

When he questions Bruce about this, Bruce shrugs it off. “I’ve missed a fair amount of calls looking after you,” he says sheepishly. “I’m afraid that’s just the case when you’re looking after children.”

Dick spends much more time sleeping than he intends to, and every time he thinks about calling Donna or Roy for a lift to the Tower, Bruce is there with some sort of activity to do together. He watches movies with Dick, though strangely it’s nothing new, only ones they’ve already seen before, and they play board games like Monopoly, and time is an endless stream that’s passing in the blink of an eye for Dick.

And maybe Dick would be enjoying it, had this not felt so very strange. He’s always conked out at night, so he can’t tell when Bruce comes and goes for their night business, and whenever he asks about patrols, Bruce tells him that he’s made sure other vigilantes are pitching in to cover Dick’s part of the city.

There’s also the fact that the medicine isn’t really helping. Dick feels just as nauseas and off-kilter as he had the day he’d woken up, but Bruce says to give it time, and Dick’s too tired and feeling too sick to disagree.

“I think,” Bruce says, after the reruns of Sherlock Holmes has finished, “you need to take a bath.”

“You telling me I stink, B?” Honestly, the only reason Dick hasn’t taken a shower yet is because he tried to, on the first day, and almost fell over in the shower when the steam had begun filling the room. And since then he’s just moved back and forth from his bedroom to the kitchen to the living room.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Bruce responds seriously. “I know you still feel dizzy, so I think a bath is a better idea.”

Dick barely listens to his words – he’s too busy trying to get his limbs out from under the piles of blankets the two of them are covered in. They always started off with a respectable amount of distance between the two of them, and then somehow Dick’s head will end up in Bruce’s lap, with Bruce running his fingers through Dick’s hair. It’s strange, to say the least, but it’s comforting and keeps the nausea somewhat at bay, so Dick doesn’t complain.

Dick’s in his room grabbing a change of clothes and trying to find a towel when Bruce pops his head in.

“I think maybe my tub is better,” he says. “It’s nice and big.”

Dick shrugs. It’s not like he has any preferences; and he’s starting to feel lightheaded again. He’d thrown up his breakfast again, and had only had the stomach to nibble on the corners of a biscuit since.

He makes his way to Bruce’s bathroom, and stops short. Because the bathtub is absolutely covered in bubbles, and there’s a sweet smell in the air. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a bubble bath – he’d only ever had baths after coming to the Manor, and even those had been when he’d been injured. He wonders why Bruce even has this stuff.

“You like it?” Bruce asks, mistaking his confusion for fascination.

Dick snorts a laugh that he doesn’t feel. “Is this why you take so long in the morning?”

“Brat,” Bruce says affectionately. “Go on, get in.” When Dick hesitates, he adds, “It’s why I put the bubble solution in. I know you’re still feeling sick and I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone. I thought this might make you feel better about it.”

Dick shifts uncomfortably on the tiled floor. “B, really, I think I’ll be fine.”

“Dick, it’s only a bath,” Bruce reasons, still maintaining that even tone. “I’ve helped you bathe plenty of times—”

“Yeah, when I’ve been too out of it to realise or care,” Dick argues. It’s the most he’s felt since he’s woken up, but speaking now feels very much like trying to break through a wall of cotton. Everything is muffled, and the brightly lit bathroom suddenly tilts onto its side. There’s nothing Dick can do about his balance but try to hold on to the towel rack as he squeezes his eyes shut.

Bruce is speaking when the buzzing sound fades from his ears. “…going to be alright,” he’s saying. “You’re such a brave boy, Dickie. You can pull through.”

Dick opens his eyes to find himself seated on the floor, knees up and Bruce kneeling beside him. One of his hands is behind Dick’s head, a barrier between him and the cold tiled wall.

“You still want to take a bath?” Bruce asks. “I don’t know if you’re up for it just yet—”

“No, no, I’ll be okay.” With visible effort, Dick pushes himself up. “Really, B, it was just for a moment. I’ll be fine. I’m sitting down—”

“Dick.” Bruce’s voice has lost that softness he’d been using these last few days to speak with Dick, but it isn’t the same gravelly ordering that Dick is used to from Batman. “You’re being ridiculous. This is nothing to be fussy over. I’ll just help you bathe yourself and then you can take a nap. Is that understood?”

Dick can only nod dumbly as Bruce practically removes his clothes for him. It helps that Dick is shorter than Bruce by a fair amount of height – his head just brushes Bruce’s shoulders. It makes it easy for Bruce to remove Dick’s shirt like one might for a child, and it’s simple for Bruce to tell Dick to hold onto his shoulders for balance as Dick steps out of his pants.

“I’m turning around now,” Bruce says, in a voice that implies he’s amused by Dick’s insistence of privacy. “Just be careful getting in.”

Dick works as fast as he can, keeping one eye on Bruce as he strips out of his underwear. He unwraps his ribs and places the bandages on the edge of the sink, and then carefully slides into the bath.

The water is deliciously warm against his bare flesh. Despite it being summer, Dick had been unable to get warm since waking in the Manor; he closes his eyes in bliss as the hot water of the bath seep into his skin.

And then there’s the rude awakening as something else splashes, and it isn’t Dick. Dick opens his eyes to find Bruce kneeling by the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up. He has in his hands a plastic mug, and he’s moving a bottle of shampoo closer.

Dick slumps down even lower in the tub, until his chin is grazing the water. He doesn’t know how to feel about Bruce suddenly taking such a hands-on approach to this whole caretaker thing, but he can’t say he’s entirely comfortable with it. He knows, though, that he had been being unreasonable – they’ve helped each other bathe countless times, and so has Alfred. Really, this is nothing to get a little shy over.

“Close your eyes, chum,” Bruce says. “Don’t want water getting into your eyes, now, do we?”

Dick doesn’t want to, but when Bruce begins pouring water over his head, his eyes shut of their own volition. It isn’t bad, really – the water trickles through his hair and onto his scalp, and he feels truly warm for the first time in a long time. He doesn’t want it to end, but at the same time, part of him wants to go back to that coldness, if it means making sense of whatever’s going on right now.

“Here,” Bruce says, with a smirk. “I know you get bored very easily, so I remembered to scrounge up some of your bath toys.”

Bath toys? Dick watches, mouth slightly open, as Bruce opens up a cupboard and brings out a handful of rubber ducks, and some toy soldiers. Does he truly expect Dick to play with them?

Dick doesn’t know what to say, so he lets out a little laugh. “Wow, B,” he says. “I thought you’d gotten rid of these ages ago.”

Bruce only smiles. “Why would I do that?” is all he says.

Dick does like to fiddle with things, though, and he finds himself grabbing the nearest rubber duck and squeezing it. A trickle of water emerges out from the tiny hole inside of it. Dick submerges the duck, to fill it up with water, and then watches in distant fascination as the water is pushed out.

There’s a squeaky noise, and Dick lifts his head to watch as Bruce squeezes out a little bit of shampoo onto his palm. Dick doesn’t say anything; he keeps his eyes on the rubber duck as the cold shampoo gets rubbed into his hair. It smells of strawberries, a sickly-sweet scent the way children’s shampoos often are. Dick has only ever stuck to the cheapest products that won’t utterly devastate his hair, but Bruce can definitely spare the money to afford something that smells better.

Bruce’s hand is suddenly on his forehead, and he smiles at Dick reassuringly when Dick flinches slightly. “Shampoo in your eyes is very painful,” he says.

Dick doesn’t say anything, because what can one say to that? He sits there, fiddling with the rubber duck, and waits for the bath to be over.

“Alright,” Bruce announces once Dick is dressed. He’d insisted on helping Dick towel his hair dry, though this time that had actually made sense, considering Dick’s ribs were still sore, and he can’t lift his arms up beyond a certain point without it hurting. “Nap time.”

“Nap time?” Dick says. “B, I haven’t napped in like… ever.”

“Your body is healing and you need to let it,” Bruce counters. “And you’ve already been sleeping between meals ever since you woke up. This is just putting a name to it.”

Dick’s ears flush at the reminder. He doesn’t know why it’s a point of embarrassment for him, but it is. Or at least, it is now that Bruce has named it ‘nap time’, after giving him a bubble bath.

“I got your bed ready while you were getting dressed,” Bruce continues. “And I’ve got a set of warm pyjamas laid out for you – I know you’ve been feeling cold lately, so I went ahead and bought them myself.”

Dick raises an eyebrow, but when he goes to speak, a yawn interrupts him. When his mouth shuts with a clack, it’s to Bruce’s knowing eyes. Dick ducks his head; he doesn’t know why he hates it that Bruce had been able to tell exactly how tired he is, but he does. He feels… well, in all honesty, he does feel like putting up a fight about napping right now would be the most childish thing he can do – it’d just make Bruce think he truly is just throwing a tantrum.

The room is already dimly lit, with only the reading light on the bedstand turned on, which is why Dick can’t entirely see the outfit Bruce has out for him until he’s only a few metres away from the bed.

He halts dead in his tracks. “B, what the fuck.”

Bruce tuts. “Language,” he chides. “We can’t have that sort of a potty mouth, now, can we?”

That’s another thing that’s off about Bruce – since when does he phrase things like that? Dick stares at him for a moment, because he and Bruce have both been victim to Alfred’s swear jar, and then looks back at the bed.

On his fluffy bedsheets is a typical pair of pyjamas. They’re cut in the shape that normal pyjamas are cut. Long sleeved shirt and long pants. They look warm and fuzzy and absolutely perfect to snuggle in on a cool night after a bath. The only issue, really, is that they’re very clearly designed with a five-year-old in mind. Dick doesn’t know where the hell Bruce even got these from – he couldn’t have ordered to have them custom made, not in such short notice, but surely normal markets didn’t sell adult sleepwear like this.

The pyjama pants Dick can mostly live with – he even likes fun printed sleep pants. These have a pattern of teddy bears on them, which… strange, but Dick can handle that. On the chest of the pullover – for it is thicker and padded nicely, at a closer glance – is an image of a teddy bear (the same as the pants) holding a bouquet of flowers. But the worst part is the writing arched over this image, which reads ‘Daddy’s Little Prince’.

“It was the warmest I could find,” Bruce says from behind him. “And as I recall, your favourite colours were once red, green, and yellow.”

It sounds so innocent when Bruce says it like that. But there’s no way he expects Dick to actually put it on, surely…

“Go on, get dressed,” Bruce urges. “I know you just got changed, but you’ll be a lot more comfortable in the pyjamas. I’ll turn around.”

“B, I can’t—I can’t wear this,” Dick stammers. “It’s…”

Bruce pauses, tilting his head. “Do you not like it?”

Dick lets out an incredulous breath. “How do you like it?” he asks frankly.

“I chose what I thought was best for you, and you act like this,” Bruce says, arms crossing over his chest. His voice is a mixture of hurt and disappointed, the exact combination it takes to get Dick feeling guilty. “It’s not like I had much range to choose from. Next time you can come shopping with me, alright? But until we do, please just…” He rubs at his head, all of a sudden looking incredibly tired.

Dick doesn’t know what to say to that. Incredulity wars with confusion inside of him, along with the unhelpful guilt the part of him that’s always wanted nothing more than to make Bruce happy and proud and smile feels. Bruce turns around, and Dick lets out a long breath.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But just for tonight. Alfred has some of my other clothes in the closet – or I can borrow yours. It’s not like I’ll be staying very long.”

Bruce hums, but doesn’t respond.

The sleep clothes are soft against Dick’s skin, and smell of… baby powder? He discreetly sniffs it as he’s putting them on; they remind him of Lian the first time he held her. Once he’s finished, Dick heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth – he hadn’t intended to forget, but somehow he has until this very moment.

There’s a different toothbrush waiting for him when he gets there. It’s green, with the Robin logo on it. Dick looks at it emotionlessly. Is this Bruce’s idea of a practical joke? After what he’s pulling with the outfit, he can’t honestly think that Dick will find this very funny.

He storms out, intending to confront Bruce, only to find him standing by the door, an eye on his watch.

“Are you finished already?” Bruce asks with a furrowed brow. “You only just went in there.” His voice turns grim. “Open your mouth and let me smell your breath.”

Dick reels his head back, and awkward laugh coming out as his brain short circuits. “What?” he says.

“Open your mouth,” Bruce repeats. “If you really brushed your teeth, I’ll be able to tell.”

“I didn’t brush my teeth,” Dick says slowly. “You didn’t even ask.”

Bruce makes a noncommittal sound. “Well, since you admitted to it, this can be a freebie. But next time, don’t expect me to be quite so lenient, chum. Now, come one. I’m going to time you.”

“B, this is ridiculous,” Dick says, anger colouring his voice despite his best efforts. “I’m a grown man.”

Bruce makes that same sound, a noise Dick’s coming to hate despite only hearing a couple of times. “You’re acting like a child,” he says, and… well, that stings far more than Dick thought it would. It must show on his face, because Bruce’s face softens. “It’s to be expected, sweetheart. You’ve had a traumatic experience, and you’re still recovering. Now, I won’t ask again. Go and brush your teeth.”

Dick slowly makes his way back into the bathroom, and brushes his teeth with that Robin toothbrush. The bristles are smaller than he’s used to, as is the handle, but he adjusts to it soon enough. The toothpaste is a brand he hasn’t had since his first month at the Manor – it’s that flavoured kind made for kids to convince them that brushing your teeth is a fun experience. Dick can’t help but wonder if Bruce got this knowing in advance that Dick would push and shove against this whole thing.

When he emerges once again out of the bathroom, Bruce gives him an approving nod, and it sends a wave of warmth down Dick’s spine. He hates it, but he craves receiving it once more.

“Hop into bed,” Bruce murmurs. And Dick complies, and it earns him another soft expression, which he can’t help but returning. Bruce places a hand on Dick’s head, his thumb stroking Dick’s face. “I’m very proud of you, Dick. You’re doing so well.”

Dick blinks. “Is… everything okay?” he asks slowly, because this really isn’t like Bruce at all. “You… sound weird, B.”

“Everything’s fine,” Bruce reassures him. “It’s just that… I realised, while you were unconscious, that I haven’t always been the best… parental figure, to you. I haven’t praised you enough, or been present enough as Bruce Wayne. This feels like a second chance, don’t you think?”

Bruce doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he walks over to the bookshelf, and plucks out a book from one of the lower shelves.

“How do you feel about ‘Zigby the Zebra Goes to the Zoo’?” he asks.

Dick snorts. “What, you’re reading me a bedtime story now, too?”

Bruce shrugs. “If it’ll help you sleep better.”

Dick doesn’t say anything, and Bruce walks over and sits down on the armchair beside the bed, and begins to read. Dick only hears a page or so before he’s out.

Dick’s in the living room, watching reruns of Lost, when Bruce walks in. He narrows his eyes at the screen and says, in a dangerously calm voice.

“What’re you watching, Dickie?”

That’s the other thing – in the week or so since Dick’s been here, Bruce slowly but surely moved from saying ‘Dick’ to ‘Dickie’, or using some sort of endearment. He hadn’t even known it was possible for Bruce to say words like ‘sweetheart’ without it being towards a model. Whether that be a human or a car.

“Lost,” Dick answers, in a tone that implies that Bruce is truly living under a rock if he doesn’t know what it is.

“And what’s this rated?”

“Uh,” Dick says, “I dunno? M, or something.”

“The TV guide says it’s for mature audiences,” Bruce tells him with a frown that’s ever deepening. “Dickie, I thought I told you to only watch G or PG rated TV.”

“B, c’mon,” Dick says, and he can’t help the whining lilt his voice suddenly takes on. “I’ve already seen this.”

“Then there’s no reason for you to watch it again, now, is there?”

So many of Bruce’s questions now only have one right answer. Dick hates them almost as much as he hates that grim disappointment that Bruce’s voice takes on when Dick does something like this.

“Watch with me, then,” he says crossly.

“I can’t right now,” Bruce says. “I have a tiny bit of work I need to be finishing. I came to give you your medicine.”

Dick hates whatever medicine this is. He’s complained to Bruce about it numerous times, and they’ve even switched it twice, but to no avail. It always ends with that same dizziness, that nausea and lost time. Bruce tells him that Leslie says it’s typical, and recovery will take time, but Dick barely even remembers what his injuries even are. Even being used as a punching bag by Two-Face hadn’t been this bad.

Dick turns off the TV while Bruce is pouring the medicine into the tiny cup. Almost automatically, Dick tilts his chin upwards, anticipating Bruce’s touch. Like clockwork – which at this point it is – Bruce holds Dick’s head steady and pours the concoction down his throat.

This one tastes faintly of grapes, which is a nice change from the raspberry, though if he has to take this stuff any longer, Dick might just grow to hate it as well. He obediently swallows, and is rewarded when Bruce’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, and then he dabs at Dick’s lips where a trace of it lingers.

“Good boy,” he says softly, stepping back and screwing the cap back on the bottle. “I’m trusting you, Dickie. Be good while I work.”

“Sure, B,” Dick calls, before stifling a coughing fit. He rarely has time alone, and he intends to make the best use of it.

The throwing up has calmed down somewhat, but he still can’t function very well during the day – really, his energy spikes in the late evening, an hour or so before bed. He’d nap right now, to really sleep away the worst of it, but knowing Bruce, he’ll be done with whatever work he has in an hour or so anyway, and Dick doesn’t want to waste this time.

He listens out for the creak of Bruce’s office door, and then turns the TV back on. He’s too dizzy to read subtitles, and his vision is still blurring on occasion, but it’s quiet enough in the living room that he doesn’t need to have the sound on very high to be able to hear most of it.

The news channels are locked, and only a six-digit code will unlock them. Dick doesn’t have it in himself to gather enough energy for frustration; he’s too busy trying to keep his breakfast down. It’s strange, though – Bruce has never sheltered him from the real world. As Robin, he couldn’t; and as a child whose parents died brutally in front of him, who had to face the harsh realities of Gotham’s system, he was a little too late to, had he even thought to try.

Dick lets out a breath, and continued channel surfing. Sex and the City is playing, and though Dick has never even considered watching it, he keeps it on anyway, just for the sake of it.

He doesn’t know when he’s dosed off, but he’s rudely awoken to the sound of footsteps. Dick hurriedly sits upright, which was a mistake – his head spins, and he has to take several deep breaths before he can think straight.

“Now do you see why I don’t want you watching these adult shows?” Bruce says once Dick’s recovered enough to look up. Bruce is standing opposite him, the TV remote in his hand. The TV has been switched off, and the cable has been removed from its socket. “I know you think it’s unfair, but my rules are here for a reason, chum. If you can’t follow them, if you can’t return the respect I gave you when I said I trusted you to do the right thing, then you shouldn’t have the privileges. Go to your room.”

“B?” Dick says in a small voice.

“You’re grounded, Dickie,” Bruce tells him quietly. “I’ll tell you when it’s time for lunch and dinner, but other than that, you’ll stay in your room.”

“B, you can’t ground me,” Dick says, standing up and swaying a little as he does so. He had another argument, another point to make, something that would make this all make sense, but right now he can barely even stand, let alone form a rebuttal.

“I can, and I just did. I won’t ask again, sweetheart.”

Dick goes to his room, though the walk up the stairs is slow. He closes the door and slumps down against the wall. He needs to clear his head. He can’t think straight. Dick glances at the clock – it’s a few minutes past eleven now. Normally, lunch is at half past noon; surely Bruce will relent by then.

Dick walks over to the bathroom attached to his room and splashes his face with water. The towel hanging from the towel rack is one of those hooded ones that children typically take to swimming pools, but Bruce had evidently thought it very cute that there was a Batman one, and promptly gotten it for Dick.

He doesn’t complain now, though, and dries his face with it. It’s soft against his skin, and he has to admit it’s sort of sweet of Bruce to buy him Batman merch.

The water has almost definitely helped with Dick’s head, because when he walks back into his room, he feels better than he normally does during this time. He shuffles around his room, looking for things to do.

He could always read, but the books on the shelf are all tiny, either picture books or short novellas he’s already finished before. He doesn’t know where his classics ended up, because where they used to be, there are now picture frames of Dick and Bruce, a couple years after Dick arrived at the Manor.

Dick avoids looking at his stuffed toys, because the sight of them makes him feel… stifled, for some reason. He hates that he can’t find comfort in Zitka anymore, when she’s been his companion for longer than anyone currently in his life.

The window overlooks the Manor grounds, and Dick’s room is just beside the road leading to the gates. Dick watches it, eyes travelling along the winding path. He’d meant to call one of the Titans to come and get him, hadn’t he?

But there’s not a phone in sight, nor is there a laptop or any other sort of device. Dick doesn’t even remember the last time he’s heard the ringing of a phone, or even a computer receiving an email.

Dick could just take a hike and get out of here, though, couldn’t he? Once that idea enters his head, Dick can’t get it out. He can’t stop thinking about getting away from here, how freeing it would finally be to have his old life back, to be around people who aren’t Bruce.

There’s still that tiny, traitorous part of his mind that feels guilt, of all things, at this mere thought – at the fact that Dick is even considering this. Bruce has given him so much – so much time, so much care, always making sure Dick takes his medication, buying him new clothes, and even helping him with dressing and undressing, and bathing, that it would be ungrateful of Dick to run away.

Dick stifles that part of himself down. He’ll come back eventually, but for now, he needs to get out of here.

Climbing out of the window is easy enough, even with his head spinning. Dick’s done this so many times that it’s almost second nature to him, and the tree outside his window is yet another close companion. He hugs its branches warmly as it embraces him right back, and carefully closes the window shut with the other hand.

It’s a quick climb down, and Dick takes in his first whiff of freedom. He loves it.

He needs to hurry, though: lunch is in an hour, and he needs to be out of the Manor by then. It would help if he had a car, but he has no idea where Bruce keeps the keys, and sneaking into the garage means sneaking past Bruce’s office, and there are security cameras in there anyway.

But the one saving light in all of this is the fact that Dick’s old bike is still most likely in the garden shed, so Dick makes a beeline for that. It’s going to save him so much time to bike out of here than run – he doesn’t even know if he can run for longer than five or ten minutes, because he hasn’t done a single speck of exercise since waking up.

The trek across the green fields is heartening. The sun is shining down just the right amount, and Dick truly feels like the universe meant for him to run away today.

The garden shed is locked with a padlock, but Dick makes quick work of that with a handy bobby pin he remembered to grab from his hidden stash in his room. He opens the door, and is relieved when it doesn’t creak.

And then his spirits plummet, for, deep in the shed where his bike used to be kept, there’s now a tricycle. It’s big enough for him to ride on, of course, though Dick has no idea how – or why – Bruce even thought this over to such an extent, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s going to be nowhere near as fast or as easy to ride as his bike.

Dick will make do with what he can. He steps into the shed, making sure the door won’t slam shut behind him, and goes to dig it out. There’s all sorts of crap in front of it, and it’s altogether much too frustrating to move so many things before he can get it out.

“Dickie?”

Dick can’t help it. He jumps a mile in the air and spins around, his face probably clearly broadcasting his guilt. His heart is jackhammering in his chest, a speed he hadn’t thought it could even reach.

Bruce is standing there in the doorway, his large frame outlined by the light entering from outside.

“Bruce,” Dick breathes out. Bruce doesn’t sound too unhappy, Dick reasons with himself, trying to calm down. In fact, he mostly just sounds confused, and even a little surprised.

“What’re you doing, kiddo?” Bruce asks, and now Dick realises that what he’d initially taken for confusion is actually Bruce trying to calm himself down. His hands are clenched into fists where they’re crossed against his broad chest, and Dick can practically hear his teeth grinding together.

“I…” Dick swallows, his throat dry. His voice unintentionally goes a little higher pitched as he says, “I was bored, B. And then I remembered I left my bike here, and you said an hour till lunch, so…” Dick shrugs, and peers up at Bruce with wide eyes.

“That’s what being grounded is supposed to feel like, Dickie,” Bruce says, but he steps out of the shed, and Dick breathes a little easier now. “Come along. Now that you’ve broken what little faith in you I had left, I can see there’s no choice but to try a harsher method.”

“B, I’m sorry!” Dick hastens to catch up, all thoughts of the bike fleeing from his mind. “I won’t do it again, I promise! Please, give me another chance!”

Bruce shook his head, his steps long and determined. Dick can normally keep up with Bruce just fine, but right now, he keeps having to scamper ahead. Bruce refuses to look at him, no matter how much Dick runs in front of him to plead with him.

They’re in the living room before Dick even processes, and with a blink of surprise, he realises his eyes are wet, and there are hot, angry tears trailing down his cheeks. He brushes them away angrily, but more follow.

Bruce doesn’t pay him any mind. He’s standing by the lone armchair, fiddling with his belt. When Dick cautiously approaches him, he finally turns around and looks Dick in the eye.

“Kneel on the couch,” he tells Dick, “and lean over the arm.”

Dick follows his instructions, not wanting to risk Bruce’s ire. He carefully moves into position, wondering what this was going to lead to. Bruce hadn’t hurt him yet, but that didn’t make Dick any less afraid. He couldn’t see Bruce even when he turned his head around, and that made his pulse skyrocket.

There’s a shlick sound, and then Bruce’s hand comes to rest on Dick’s tailbone. “I’m doing this for your own good, Dickie, just remember that,” is all he said before there’s a thin noise that cut through the air.

Dick doesn’t put the pieces together before the first impact of Bruce’s belt on his behind. He sucks in a breath, his body jolting forward with the hit. Bruce’s hand is firm on his body, holding him in place as he whips the belt once again.

“Ten times,” Bruce promises. “Count for me. You can start at three.”

Tears are still streaming down Dick’s face, tickling him as they trickle down the side of his nose. His nose is watering, too, and he sniffles grossly as he counts.

“Three,” he says in a thick voice. “Bruce, please—”

 Another strike. The pain isn’t that bad – it’s really more the humiliation of the situation that’s causing the tears. Bruce hadn’t gotten Dick to take off his pants or anything, so there’ll probably be at most a few red marks on his skin after all of this. But Dick will remember. And so will Bruce. He doesn’t know how he’ll be able to look the other man in the eye after this, after how humiliating this whole thing is. He should’ve made a run for it instead of trying to grab his bike.

“Four,” Dick breathes out, drawing in a stuttering breath.

“That’s a good lad,” Bruce praises. “Only six more now, Dickie.”

“Five.” Dick’s eyes squeeze shut at the impact of the belt, rocking forward.

He’s outright crying by the time Bruce reaches ten, silent sobs shaking his frame. He doesn’t move out of the kneeling position when Bruce moves away, instead burying his face in the plush arm and letting it get soaked with the tears that are now covering his cheeks.

“Here, lift your head for me.” Bruce manoeuvres two fingers beneath Dick’s chin, prodding a little until Dick gets the hint and looks up at Bruce. “Oh, sweetheart. If it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t easy for me to do, either. I hate to hurt you, Dickie, but sometimes you need to be disciplined. I know what’s best for you, even if you can’t see it now.”

Another wave of tears run down Dick’s face, and he sniffs helplessly, eyes shifting downwards. All he wants to do right now is head up to bed and curl into a tight ball.

Bruce gets out a handkerchief from somewhere and dabs at his face, frowning when the tears keep coming. Finally, he gives up, and covers Dick’s nose with it.

“Blow,” he says simply.

Dick tries to move his head back, because there’s humiliation, and then there’s whatever the fuck this is, but Bruce’s hand is suddenly behind his head, hard as an iron band. Dick can barely squirm in his grip.

“Blow,” Bruce repeats. “The sooner you do it, chum, the sooner it’s over.”

Another blink, another few tears escaping. Dick gives in, and blows into the handkerchief. He can’t grimace at the horrible sensation of Bruce wiping his nose for him without it inadvertently causing a bigger mess, but it’s difficult to keep a neutral face.

“Well done,” Bruce says. “Now, it’s been a rough day, and it’s barely even noon. How about you go and take your nap, and I’ll call you in a few hours for a late lunch?”

Dick barely manages to nod before he’s fleeing the room. His bottom is aching as he practically runs up the stairs and into his room, but he ignores it as best as he can. It’ll feel much worse in a few hours when he wakes, but that’ll be future Dick’s problem.

It’s only when he’s under the covers that he glances up towards the window, and realises that it’s only from this angle you can spot the tiny camera that’s hidden between the window frame and the curtains.

A spike of fear shoots through Dick. He doesn’t know why it’s this that’s the final straw, but it is. He needs to do something, but he doesn’t know what. All he knows is he was right to try to run, but he needs a smarter method now, something foolproof.

Bruce seems more or less back to normal by the time they have dinner – or at least, as normal as Bruce is anymore. Dick errs of the side of caution, however, but he still asks everything he needs to.

“How’s everything going with Batman?” he questions. Dinner tonight is mashed potatoes and vegetable fries, and he’s hungry enough to scarf it down.

Bruce lets out a hum. “Fine,” he says. “Gotham is well. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, I wasn’t worried.” For some reason, Bruce seems to respond better when Dick’s pitch is higher, and Dick has begun to fall into it more. “I know you’re a great Batman.”

Bruce gives him a genuine smile. “Thank you, chum,” he says, and looks as though he’s actually touched. “That means a lot to me.”

Dick flashes him a quick smile, too. Next up are questions about space, about volcanoes, about fish in the sea: in short, Dick needs Bruce to think he’s bouncing back faster than he actually is, and that this is all just a normal part of Dick’s hyperactivity.

“Say, B,” he says around a mouthful.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bruce interrupts, but doesn’t seem particularly mad about it.

“Sorry,” Dick says quickly, and then continues, “but I was thinking… I haven’t seen Superman in a while.” He makes sure that when he looks up, his eyes are nice and wide.

Bruce huffs a laugh. “I thought you’d outgrown your Superman phase.”

It’s funny, Dick thinks, because this is the first time Bruce has ever implied that outgrowing something would be preferable. He ducks his head, and tries to make himself flush a little. “I don’t think anyone can ever outgrow Superman,” he says.

Bruce hums once again. “Well, last I heard from him, he’s still in Metropolis being Superman.”

Dick latches onto this piece of information with the wide eyes of a fan. “Really?” he says. “Do you know any recent stories of what he’s been up to?”

Bruce sighs, and then tells Dick about Superman rescuing some cat out of a tree that Dick is mostly sure didn’t happen. But he knows now, from this reaction of Bruce’s, that there’s a high chance that Bruce would tell Dick if Superman was in space.

He doesn’t eat his dessert that night. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t stomach the jelly cup, with little pieces of fruit floating around in it. Not only does it smell strange, but it’s got blueberries in it, and Dick isn’t exactly the biggest fan of blueberries.

He stuffs it down the sink when Bruce is busy clearing the table, because if he throws it out in the bin, Bruce will see. And then he pretends to rinse out his plastic cup that Bruce has given him to drink water in, to really get rid of any traces of it.

And maybe that’s why Dick feels so much more awake when Bruce comes to his room to tuck him in and read to him, though that makes no sense – it should really be the other way around, what with the sugar content in jelly.

Dick waits until he hears the squeak of the clock opening, and then closing once again, before he makes a wild dash for it. He doesn’t care that there’s a camera on the window anymore. This time all he needs to do is to make it to the rooftop. He’ll be fine once he gets there. He tells himself that like a mantra, willing it into being.

Little bits of doubt start flitting through his head, like pesky insects buzzing around him. What if Clark isn’t on planet, what if Bruce gets there before Dick can call out to him, what if Dick is truly just imagining all of this and once Clark arrives he’ll see that Bruce has everything under control and leave once again?

They weigh heavily on him, almost too heavy for Dick to move, but he was already too slow once, and he’ll be damned – perhaps quite literally, in this case – if he lets it happen once again. His bottom is screaming at him as he climbs upwards, but all he can do is grit his teeth and keep going.

The top of the roof is an even slope, and the tiles make it easy for Dick to balance atop it. He stands, and then, facing the direction of Metropolis, he lets out a yell for help.

“CLARK!”

Almost immediately, a dark cloud descends onto him with the flap of a cape. For the wildest, most hopeful moment Dick has felt in much too long, he dares hope that Superman is here, and he’s saved.

“What,” a low gravelly voice says, “are you doing?”

“Batman,” Dick breathes out, stumbling backwards. “It’s… it’s not what it looks like.” At this point, he’ll say anything to save himself.

“It isn’t what it seems?” Batman hisses, stepping closer. “Because it seems like you’re an ungrateful child who doesn’t appreciate all that his parent is trying to do for him. It seems like I’ve been given a thankless job of looking after you and caring for you and devoting my time and effort and money to you all so you can go running to Superman the second you face the consequences of a tantrum. It seems—”

But Dick will never know what Bruce was about to say, because at that moment, he reaches the edge of the roof, and his foot slips. He lets out a panicked yelp, trying desperately to regain his balance, but to no avail.

Dick falls, and the last thing he sees is Batman’s cold face staring back at him.

And then he lands in something warm and solid.

“Got you,” a familiar voice says in his ear, and Dick opens his eyes instantly to see Clark’s kind face staring back down at him. “What’s going on, Dick?”

Dick opens his mouth to speak, but to his horror, his eyes well up. Clark’s face instantly loses the humour it held, his eyes widening at the sight of Dick’s tears.

“I think something’s wrong with B,” Dick hiccups out pathetically. “You gotta run tests on him or something. He isn’t… he isn’t Bruce.”

Clark nods worriedly. “Alright. Yes, of course. I’ll… I’ll take you to the nearest base, and call the the rest of the team. J’onn might be best.”

He’s rambling, clearly, to take Dick’s mind off things, because Clark’s nice and thoughtful like that. It doesn’t help, not really. Because Dick can only think of how Bruce’s face had been twisted in anger, in disgust at his child, and he hates himself for putting that there.

Dick doesn’t know what he’ll do if it turns out that it’d been Bruce all along.

It takes about a day for the League to run all their tests. Clark initially takes Dick to Watch Tower, too, to get checked up on. Dick had initially insisted that it wasn’t necessary, that he was fine, but then they’d run basic blood tests on him and results had come back with a foreign substance in his bloodstream. It’s a drug with a cocktail of effects, but most notably are its ability to make the user’s mind more susceptible to suggestions, with side effects of nausea and dizziness.

Dick knows that the drug is out of his system now, but he can’t move past the fact that Bruce had kept him drugged inside the Manor for almost a month.

But it wasn’t Bruce, and that… well, that should, in theory, make everything better. It should make it all magically okay again, because the mere fact that it wasn’t Bruce means that Dick technically went through all this at the hands of a villain – this is honestly like if he was held hostage for a few weeks by Deathstroke or the like.

It just doesn’t feel that way.

Lois reassures him that one day he’ll be able to move on from all of this, and Dick tries to hold on to that without feeling sceptical. But it’s not just the fact that it had been unpleasant, because a lot of it… hadn’t been.

He hates that he can’t go to bed without remembering the times that Bruce read him to sleep, where Bruce’s gravelly, crystal clear voice was the last thing Dick heard before he faded away. He hates that the loneliness that had plagued him since leaving the team had been momentarily gone, because he and Bruce had spent each day after breakfast together in the living room, and each afternoon playing some sort of board game together.

And what he hates most of all is how he’d craved that praise that Bruce had given him so easily, because the way he’d felt in that moment is something he knows he’ll never get again. Bruce… he doesn’t know if Bruce will ever talk to him again, and even if he did, what would Dick say to him?

Then, two weeks after Dick had been rescued, and a week and three days after Clark had dropped him off at his apartment in Metropolis, Clark drops by. He hasn’t been around much, lately, what with everything going on with Bruce, and Dick smiles a real smile when he sees him.

“Dick,” he greets warmly.

“Hey, Clark.” Dick steps back into the apartment, following Clark as the other man sheds his coat and places his briefcase on the couch.

“Lois tells me you’re doing okay.” Clark glances at him, but he seems to like what he sees, because his smile stays on his face.

Dick shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “She’s been absolutely wonderful.”

“She’s very good at being a superhero,” Clark agrees. “Now… I need to tell you a few things. Firstly, we found Alfred, and he’s okay. He’ll just need some time to be better.”

“You found him? Where was he?”

“He was in the Cave,” Clark says in a sombre voice. “Bruce – or rather, the Bruce under the curse – kept him in a medical coma. We’re working to pull him out of it, but at his age, it’s hard to tell when or how that might look.”

Dick sits down hard, and it feels a lot like plummeting to the ground. He doesn’t know how to function in a world without Alfred. If only he’d been faster. If only he’d gone down to the Cave. This might’ve been over much sooner, and Alfred would’ve had better chances.

“Dick,” Clark says. “It’s not your fault. Br—He kept you drugged up as well. You have to remember that. Alfred is strong – we’re all confident that he’ll pull through.”

Dick nods, unable to meet Clark’s eyes. “And the other thing?”

“Hmm?”

“You said you needed to tell me a few things.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” This time Clark looks uncomfortable. “Bruce… he… he wants me to tell you—”

“He told you to tell me something?” Dick says, more alert than he’s been in a very long time.

“Yes.”

“Well, I won’t listen to it if it isn’t directly from him. He’s a coward if he thinks he can hide in space after everything.”

“You… want to talk to him?” Clark asks slowly.

Dick hesitates, the full meaning of his own demand finally hitting him. Did he want to speak to Bruce? Not particularly, but it was like ripping off a band-aid. He would never be able to move on if he didn’t, and he knew the other man stewed in guilt like no other.

Dick nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I want to speak with him. Maybe not face to face, not yet, but… I want to see the real Bruce, y’know? This last month was like… being brainwashed. It’s like I can barely remember what the real B was even like, and I don’t… because I had good memories with him, and with Batman, and I don’t want some stupid curse to get in the way of that. I just…”

“I understand,” Clark says, his voice easy. “I’ll tell him. We can arrange a phone call, or a video call.”

Dick thinks of Bruce’s face as he’d fallen off the rooftop, thinks about the way he’d looked as he’d spat words at Dick, and hides a shiver. “Phone call, to start off with, maybe?”

“Phone call it is,” Clark says, and he squeezes Dick’s arm.