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Dick is curled up in his bed. It’s not an unusual sight, but it became a rare one when Dick became a teenager. Now that he’s an adult, it’s even rarer; Bruce stops at the doorway of his room, observing his son and the way his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. Not one deep enough to tell him Dick is asleep, but he’s probably halfway from here. Calm, at least, so a nightmare is probably not the reason for his appearance here tonight.
Carefully, Bruce takes the steps toward the bed. Dick doesn’t move, but he opens his eyes previously closed, his gaze fixed on Bruce. He doesn’t talk, either.
There’s a lost look in his eyes, and eyebags way too large and dark underneath. He’s pale, still not moving, still not talking, and Bruce’s heart breaks.
He would have preferred the nightmare — at least he can pour reason and logic on it to make it disappear. This, though — the despair and darkness inside yourself, the heaviness of life itself and the too-present shadow of death, Bruce cannot fight it. There’s no magical solution, no practiced words able to pierce through it.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says quietly, and Dick hums in acknowledgment.
Still carefully, Bruce put his hand on his son’s head, tucking lost bangs of hair away from his face, carding through the dark locks again and again and again, until under his gaze Dick’s entire posture relaxed. And then he keeps going, shifting his weight so he’s sitting on the bed beside his son, still in complete silence.
Bruce knows perfectly well where to massage for Dick’s body to go lax under the soft pressure. It has scared him, the first time he had done it — it had been by accident, back when Dick was a child and Bruce had been trying to calm him without any confidence in his acts or words. Bruce can still remember the way he had pet Dick’s hair in the hope it would help somehow, and how Dick’s body had relaxed entirely in his arms when he had rubbed the spot at the juncture of his neck and his head.
It’s still the same today.
Finally, Dick sighs, and Bruce knows it’s the sign he was waiting for. Keeping his hand on Dick’s head as a quiet but safe pressure, he bends to press a kiss into his hair.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, because he can’t force Dick to open up to him but he can still open the door to him any time he wishes too.
Dick slowly shakes his head.
“Okay, sweetheart. No problem. What can I do for you?”
“Stay,” says his son, his voice so low that Bruce almost doesn’t hear him.
“Of course.”
Bruce is already dressed to sleep, and he hasn’t been hurt on patrol tonight; it’s his chance, since he doesn’t want to let go of Dick right now, and his son needs him anyway. Still careful in his movements, he lays down on the bed, tucking the blanket over them, putting his arms around Dick. His son immediately lashes on, curling up against his chest, his head buried against his shoulder, his fingers gripping at his shirt. Bruce can feel the tears, but there’s not a lot he can do; so he closes his arms around Dick, keeps a hand on his back and the other on his son’s hair, and he slowly rocks him back and forth.
Bruce is not stupid. He knows what the vigilante life can do to someone — lives it himself. It’s hard, and there’s so many horrible things one person can see before breaking. There’s so much weight on your shoulders and terrible decisions to carry on your back; Bruce had always known that.
Often, he regrets having ever allowed the existence of Robin. But every time, he remembers that helping people is just how Dick is, and he would have done it anyway, no matter what, no matter his identity. It’s what he’s doing, every day of his life, and Bruce can’t be prouder of him. Still, he mourns the lost innocence of his son, sacrificed to a big heart and a care beyond reason.
Dick is his son, and Bruce is not objective in the slightest, but he’ll be the first one to tell the world how wonderful and strong Dick is. How inherently good and caring, gentle and brave, fair and honest. But he’s human, too, and Bruce knows that even for him, sometimes things become a little too much. Sometimes, he needs to cry and hide and remember the beauty of humanity before he can go back into the fight.
Bruce is not stupid, and he’s aware that Dick is far from telling him everything that happen in his life. Bruce has general information, whatever Dick accepts to tell him, whatever people will tell about him; but not more. On a logical level, Bruce knows that Dick hides things from him. Traumatic events, perhaps, even — things that no one wants to tell their father. Things that come back to haunt him at night or when his mind is already half-breaking.
Things that are maybe playing at the back of his mind right now, and Bruce can’t really do anything to stop it but hold his son through it.
Dick has slowly stopped crying against his chest. He’s a little more heavy against him now, and Bruce can guess he’s falling asleep.
He kisses his son’s hair. The room is dark around them. The blanket is warm on their bodies. Bruce doesn’t let go of his son, and Dick doesn’t try to go either.
Bruce sighs quietly; he knows he’ll wait for Dick to be asleep to follow him in the land of dreams, but it will probably be sooner than later.
“Good night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and Dick hums softly.
“’Night, Dad,” he answers, his voice already fading away at the end.
Bruce smiles, heart bursting with a quiet love he’ll never regret despite the ache and fear and stress it causes him.
Dick is a comfortable weight in his arms, and he’s now asleep, calm and still too pale but heart a little lighter now. And just for that, Bruce is glad — if his mere presence can help, it’s all he can ask for.
Bruce cards through his son’s hair a last time; then, he closes his eyes, and lets the soft breathing drive him away in a land of sweet dreams and bright memories.