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It was a beautiful day outside. Gotham had been graced by an usual cloudless week, the weather pleasant enough so that, during the afternoons, one neither felt too cold nor too hot when walking out beneath the sun’s gentle caress. Most trees were already adorned by colorful buds, flowers were already blossoming and spreading their perfumes, and as the days grew longer, robins greeted the season with merry songs. Even the Wayne Manor, a place rendered frozen in time by the gloomy work of unseen shadows, welcomed the levity of spring with a ready embrace.
Perhaps it was the uncharacteristic cheerfulness of the outdoors that added to the sudden tension inside Bruce Wayne’s study. The billionaire philanthropist and secret vigilante was sitting on his chair, the sunlight highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones, the squareness of his jaw, the broadness of his shoulder, the intelligence in his eyes. He stared at Dick Grayson in open shock, the younger man’s outburst echoing within the private space, the single word carrying great power through the absolute certainty yet genuine anger with which it was uttered.
“Bullshit!” Dick repeated, with that same snarl. “Don’t ever say such bullshit, Bruce. Never again, you hear me?”
It had been a long time since he last snapped at Bruce so suddenly and so quickly, but the man’s statement — and the baffling confidence in which he said it, the fact that he was ready to act like a stubborn Bat by digging his heels in to defend such nonsense — was enough to flare that infamous dormant temper.
Sure enough, Bruce leaned back on his chair, eyes mournful with self-depreciation as he turned to face the window, looking over the rosebushes and the large oak tree in the near distance.
“It is true,” his voice, too, carried that note of rueful resignation, a tone adopted when one stated an unfortunate yet undeniable fact. “Bruce Wayne is just—”
“I’m warning you, Bruce. Don’t even finish that sentence.”
Annoyance flickered over Bruce’s countenance. Dick squared his shoulders. He stood in front of Bruce’s desk, had been sitting until just a few moments prior, when the bullshit forced him to his feet. Dick’s teeth were now set, his eyes narrowed with the same unwavering determination that had once contributed to break up of the original Dynamic Duo.
“I don’t understand why you keep saying that,” Bruce said. “More than anyone else, you should know—”
“More than anyone else, I know what you said is bullshit. It’s utter bullshit, Bruce,” Dick cut him off. “How can even say that nonsense? How can you believe it?”
“It is true,” Bruce repeated. “Bruce Wayne is a mask. Only Batman is real.”
“Bullshit!”
When Alfred had called him three nights ago, Dick hadn’t hesitated in grabbing Haley and driving all the way to Gotham so he could spend the next month keeping Bruce company.
Bruce had been seeing a woman. She was not Selina, for though the two still flirted when chasing one another over a stolen diamond, though they still stole kisses on rooftops regardless of whether they were alone or not, and though they still kept each other company beneath silk sheets when the mood struck them, they had not resumed a committed relationship since their engagement fell apart years prior. She was not Talia, either, for though they exchanged appreciative glances during their rare meetings, and though Dick knew for certain they had fallen into bed at least six times since Damian came to them, what the two shared could hardly be considered conventional “dating.”
Her name was Rita. She was a regular Gothamite with no associations to heroes, criminals, or any form of vigilante work. She was, of all things, a geologist who met Bruce by chance at an event aimed at raising awareness to the pollution plaguing Gotham Harbor. A discussion over the merits of recent technological innovations proved her to have the smile, the heart, and the wits to leave Bruce completely infatuated.
From their interactions, Dick found Rita in possession of an innocence born of a lifetime shielded from horrors and tragedies. That, he concluded, amplified her natural charisma to those who did not share her luck. In many ways, her laughter, her optimism, and her gentleness embodied all of which Bruce wished to protect and foster in his beloved city, and it was through their dates, their aimless walks through Gotham’s streets, through their weekend mornings lounging by the pool, their evenings going to the ballet, that she gave him a taste of what his life would have been like had his own innocence not been robbed from him by two deafening shots in a dark alley.
They were together for almost a year. They were serious enough for Bruce to introduce her to the kids, for Bruce to take her not just to Wayne-sponsored events, but to brunch with Clark and Lois at Metropolis, to introduce her to Diana when the Amazon came over to see the new exhibit at Gotham’s Museum of Antiquities. Though Bruce was nowhere ready to take her to the Cave below, it was clear that the billionaire had grown to care for Rita quite a lot. Perhaps he was even starting to love her, if only a little. And, for what Dick had observed, those feelings were certainly reciprocated.
It wasn’t Dick’s first time playing spectator to such a relationship. Bruce’s chosen partners, Dick had learned from years of unwillingly having a first row seat to such romances, typically feel into two different categories: First, there were the flings, the one night stands, the short-term relationships that kept Bruce’s bed warm. Bruce cultivated these with the intention of both maintaining his playboy personal and of satisfying his own genuine enjoyment of casual sex. Typically speaking, they were mostly women he picked up as Brucie, though there had been a few notable exceptions who bedded the Bat rather than the Billionaire.
The second category was composed of the women whom Bruce formed a genuine connection with despite his own desires to keep people at a distance. These were women who, through their wit, their impressive expertise, and their persistence, genuinely managed to enchant the man who actively tried to make himself into a lonesome figure. They were rarer than the first category, but not necessarily uncommon. They were the ones who, given time, Bruce even grew to love. More often than not, they were like Selina or Talia; knowing both Bruce and Batman, having hardly ever interacted with Brucie. And though yes, more often than not they came to him through Batman, Dick could distinctly remember in his childhood a few who had not belonged to the Night and, instead, fell for Bruce without ever meeting the Dark Knight.
They had grown rarer over the years. By the time Tim became the Boy Wonder, these were nearly extinct. But they had existed nonetheless. There was a precedent to Rita, even if it had been years since the last time Bruce had genuinely fallen for someone like her. And there had also been a precedent — one nearly as old as the mantle of Robin — for Dick helping nurse Bruce’s broken heart whenever the women in the second category eventually left him.
Nearly two decades of ignoring pitying glances and plastering a smile on his face meant that Dick knew his role in this play well. His script and marks were not just memorized, they had been perfected with the mastery of a Broadway actor who’d been performing in the same show for years. He alone had the expertise required fix this situation. Dick knew how their month together would go; he knew how to distract Bruce, he knew how to ensure he was sleeping enough, that he was eating right, that he was not wallowing in self-pity. Dick knew that in the first few days, Bruce would keep quiet and act dismissive, tell Dick to go away, pretend nothing was wrong and he did not need help. Maybe he would even lash out with cruelty. Dick also knew that once Bruce remembered that this was Dick, and no matter what happened Dick would always be his constant, he would finally open up. Dick knew when that happened, he would have to be empathetic and patient as Bruce fully exposed his insecurities, talking with earnest longing for that which he had just lost. Dick knew he would have to come prepared with an armor around his own heart, setting aside his own pain in order to help the one he loved.
What he had not known was that he would be forced to hear such utter bullshit.
“Rita said she could tell I was hiding something,” Bruce said once Dick did not stand down. His voice was cold and matter-of-fact as he rattled off the details of his break-up like Batman picking apart the evidence in a case. It made Dick’s curled fist shake. “She said she knew I wasn’t cheating on her and she said she knew I wasn’t lying when we talked, but that did not mean I was being truthful, either. Rita… She said she could tell I was not being my true self when we were together.”
“Dating civilians is always hard,” Dick’s tone was diplomatic, measured as he tried to stir Bruce away from his previous line of thinking. “Especially when you haven’t told them the truth yet. It’s tricky, yeah, and not very honest. But that doesn’t mean—”
“It’s not just that she is a civilian, Dick,” Bruce said. “She was right. She’s… Rita is perceptive. She’s intelligent. She could tell that I wasn’t being my true self because I wasn’t. With her, I was never Batman, only Bruce Wayne. And Bruce Wayne is nothing but—”
“Bruce, I swear, you finish that sentence, and I’ll punch you in the face. This is your last warning.”
Though Bruce’s eyes were still slightly narrowed and his lips were still pressed together in that crooked thin line, curiosity and genuine puzzlement edged away annoyance. He sat back on his chair, looking at Dick as if trying to solve one of Nygma’s more nonsensical riddles.
Outside, a gush of wind whistled softly, the branches of tree rattling just enough so it’s leaves would cast a momentary shadow inside the study.
“Why does this bother you so?” Bruce asked. The pain of the breakup was suddenly absent from his voice and features. Dick almost let out an exaggerated sigh. Figures. Give the man a puzzle and he would forget all about his own humanity until he found its solution. This was the exact type of thing that Dick tried to avoid whenever he handled Bruce’s post-breakup-gloom; it was a tricky juggling act, one that required keeping the Bruce’s mind occupied with intellectually stimulating challenges so he would not neglect his own health while simultaneously keeping him from running away from the pain he needed to confront. “I’m stating a fact that many of our colleagues and even our family would consider common wisdom.”
Dick took his seat in front of Bruce’s desk once more. His chair, the one closest to the window and angled so the seater could not see the gardens, had a dark wooden frame that matched almost every single furniture in the study, the cushions comfortable and embellished with a barely perceivable beige-on-beige pattern. Its twin was angled right beside it, though over his years in the Manor, Dick could count on one hand the number of times he sat on it.
Even at a young age, he liked the way the outdoor light hit the planes of Bruce’s face when viewed from his current angle. Even when all they had was the light from the fireplace, it was this seat had been perfectly positioned to better admire Bruce when the man was at his desk.
“Well, then those people are wrong,” Dick said. With a playful smirk, he added, “More than anyone else, you should know that just because something is ‘common wisdom,’ it doesn’t make it true.”
Bruce did not find amusement in having half his words parroted at him.
“Come on, B. You can’t honestly believe that. Life is not… Life is not that simple. People are not that simple. You are not that simple,” Dick said. “You’re doing yourself a disservice.”
“I’m doing myself a disservice?” Bruce asked. “Are you honestly going to tell me that you believe I enjoy going to those events, that the careless idiot you see on the tabloids is the real me?”
Dick shook his head.
“I’m not saying you don’t put on an act. But playing up some of your characteristics when in public is very different from saying that… From what you were saying,” Dick said. “Yeah, you act up a little, you sometimes embarrass yourself on purpose to distract the media, you play down your intelligence, you certainly play down your need for control, but that’s not the same as being a mask, Bruce. That’s what I’m getting at. You understand that, right?”
Bruce did not even consider Dick’s words.
“Bruce Wayne is a mask,” he repeated. “He died that night with Thomas and Martha, and ever since then, there has only been Batman. He may not have received that name until much later, but the moment Bruce died, Batman was born.”
Dick really wished that the desk wasn’t between them so he could keep his promise and punch Bruce in the face.
“That’s not true,” he gritted through his teeth. “You can’t separate Bruce from Batman anymore than you can separate Robin or Nightwing from who I am. It doesn’t work like that, Bruce.”
Bruce stood to his feet.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t know what I’m talking about? You’re the one saying utter bullshit because of a bad break—”
“Ever since that night, all I have done in my life is pretend! I had to pretend to the cameras, pretend to my relatives, pretend to everyone around me when all I wanted was to bring justice to my parents! I thought of nothing but what Gotham needed, how I could help her and her people! Every decision I made from the moment my parents died was in service of Batman and what Batman stood for. I gave it my everything, Dick. There’s nothing of Bruce left. There’s only Batman.”
Dick took another deep breath. He, too, was on his feet once again. It would be a miracle if they managed to get through this argument without resorting to fists.
“I’m sure it felt like that, Bruce. I’m sure a lot of people told you that as well, and I’m sure that there might have been many times when that almost came true — when that… that hurt and that pain inside of you almost consumed you whole,” with each word he spoke, sadness seeped into his voice, into his eyes. It hurt to think of Bruce, so alone for so many years, to know that brilliant mind Dick loved so deeply could also be Bruce’s greatest torturer. Dick noticed, now, how Bruce’s shoulders hunched up just slightly, how the man sucked in a unnoticed breath — tell tale signs, Dick knew, of Bruce being affected by what was being said or done, the little shows that indicated he was about to put up a defensive wall. “But that doesn’t mean that Batman is all you are. He is a part of you, yes, but he is not all of you.”
I would have been a terrible Robin and an even worse friend if I ever allowed that to happen.
Bruce raised his chin in a very-Batman way. Dick almost roll his eyes at the man’s stubborn dramatics.
“Then who is Bruce Wayne?” he challenged. He used his Batman-growl, though he knew well that such intimidating tactic had never worked on Dick. “If you’re so sure of yourself, tell me who Bruce Wayne is without making any mentions of Batman.”
This time, Dick did roll his eyes. He also let out a frustrated groan.
“God, B, didn’t you hear me? It’s not that simple. People are nuanced. You can’t separate parts of yourself like—”
“That’s because you can’t think of anything,” Bruce said. “It’s because you know that Bruce Wayne is nothing but—”
“Bruce Wayne likes cars,” Dick cut him off. In any other situation, Dick might have smirked at having successfully silenced his friend and former mentor with just four words, but the nature of their conversation prevented him from feeling smug. He kept his tone cool, detached, as if he were the one now rattling off evidence from a case. “He likes them a bit too much, in fact. If he had a vice, it wouldn’t be coffee or alcohol or nicotine or even sugar. No, Bruce Wayne’s vice is fancy cars. It’s something he got from his father, from when he was little and they used to tinker with the collection in the garage. He kept the hobby going even after the events of that night, but not just because it made him feel connected to his dad. Bruce genuinely likes cars, he likes driving fast, and he likes working on them because doing so keeps his mind busy and silences that constant nagging in his brain. He is always looking for new vehicles to add to his collection, always browsing listings, always keeping up with what the manufacturers are putting out, always looking for a vintage model to work on. His phone has at least three websites bookmarked, and the computers, both at Wayne Enterprises and his personal one right here at home, each have at least five. He checks them all every week, some on a daily basis. This is the one filthy-billionaire hobby that he allows himself to indulge in without feeling guilty, and it’s a passion he shared with Jason when he first brought him home. They went to shows together all the time, and they would sometimes spend the entire weekend working in the garage. Sometimes, when Bruce came home and Jason had already finished his homework, they’d go tinker with some of the old cars together for a few hours before Alfred told them to freshen up for dinner. And while yeah, that love of cars influenced the Batmobile, it didn’t originate there. Be honest with yourself, Bruce, there’s a reason why none of the many — many — iterations of Batman’s car are utilitarian. The Batmobile could have been a lot less flashy, focused only on practicality. There’s no reason for there to be that many of them, either. But Bruce Wayne loves cars, and he designed the Batmobile to not only serve Batman’s Mission, but to also fulfill his own gearhead’s fantasies. Like it or not, B, Bruce Wayne’s personal preferences can be seen all over the Batmobile.”
With his arms crossed in front of his chest, Dick dared Bruce to deny his words. Bruce stared at Dick, his back straight, his hands curled into fists, his brows pulled together. The longer the silence stretch, the more Dick couldn’t decide if he should be insulted or hurt by Bruce’s astonishment. Did he really think that after nearly twenty years together, Dick would not have noticed all these things about him? Did he forget how deep their bond went, how unique it was? Or maybe…
Dick suddenly felt incredibly sadden by the realization that Bruce had never given his own passion any consideration for he deemed it to be an insignificant part of himself.
What an idiot.
It was a good thing Dick was not done.
“Bruce Wayne is vain,” he continued, in that some tone as before. “And I don’t mean ‘vain’ in the way people think or the way Bruce likes to appear. Like the man himself, Bruce’s vanity is more nuanced than that. It comes from his need to control everything, every aspect of his person, and that includes his appearance. It’s why he is always so careful when selecting which clothes he wears, why he insists on having a clean shaved look, why he is so precise with the way he styles his hair, why he keeps spare ties and shirts and suits at his office in case one gets dirty. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Bruce worries about his appearance just like any person would — I caught him looking at his few gray hairs and his crow feet with a frown on more than a few occasions, even though I don’t think he has anything to worry about — but that’s very different from what I’m getting at. Bruce’s vanity — his true vanity — is more about not wanting his looks to give away something without his notice. And that’s not because he’s Batman, but because he’s reserved and he’s scared of letting people in, and making sure they only see what he wants them to see is one of the ways he controls who gets close to him and who doesn’t.”
Dick almost snorted when, at the mention of his gray hair, Bruce instinctively raised his hand to run it through the strands, stopped midair, then stubbornly lowered it to his side.
In that moment, he looked nothing like the picture of control Dick had painted with his words; his hair was disheveled, his square jaw dusted by a noticeable stubble, tiredness and frustration marring his features. He wore jeans and a simple white shirt, the three top buttons undone, exposing his collarbone and accentuating the strength of his neck. Though he now fought against the urge to pull his sleeves and his fingers flexed as if they wished to adjust a non-existent tie, until Dick accepted his challenge, Bruce had not even realized how exposed he felt without his usual carefully collected attires.
It was… Oddly honoring. As Dick watched the older man so clearly — at least, so clearly to him — struggle to maintain a veneer of stoicism, the spring sun embracing him with a warm yellow light that made his eyes sparkle, Dick was reminded that, excluding Alfred, he was only person in this world who got see Bruce like this. Actually, “honored” was not strong enough of a word; Dick felt almost giddy at the realization that Bruce trusted him so much and was so comfortable in his presence that his subconscious completely dispensed away his usual controlling vanity.
Dick almost smiled at the thought. Almost. Outside, a robin’s merry melody filled the silence. To Dick’s ears, it beckoned him to continue
“Bruce Wayne likes swashbuckler movies. The type they don’t make anymore, like The Mark Zorro, or The Three Musketeers, The Scarlet Pimpernel or even Pirates of the Caribbean and The Princess Bride. He doesn’t like action movies, with CGIs and explosions and blood and violence. No, he finds those boring. What he likes is those old style adventure sort of movies, with exploration and heroes and stories that are so romantic in their earnestness. You know, the type that has fallen out of favor with Hollywood nowadays,” Dick gave a shrug. “He has old-fashioned taste like that. Not just with movies or books. For example, he may hate galas, but he likes the music played in them, and he likes slow-dancing. It’s why though he pretends to dread all those stuffy events he is forced to attend, he actually looks forward to them, just a little, because it’s one of the few times when he can actually waltz. Like I said, he’s old-fashioned with his tastes, and when it comes to music, he likes Frank Sinatra, he hums La Vie en Rose to himself a lot, and he loves operatic pop, of all things. Like Andrea Boccelli and Sarah Brightman. Boccelli will always be his favorite, though. He plays Con te Partiro in every Christmas party he hosts, be it ones attended by Wayne-guests, or ones just with family and friends.”
Dick failed to mention how Con te Partiro was the exact same song that was playing when, while Bruce taught him to dance, Dick’s world forever changed. The memory was engraved in his brain, the feel of Bruce’s hand on his shoulder, the smell of his musky cologne, the sounds of the violin accompanying Bruce’s gentle humming as they swayed from side to side. Dick had been doing so well in his lessons, only twelve and mastering the dance with ease, and yet as soon as Bruce broke through his gentle humming to praise him, everything was lost. Dick looked up to find Bruce smiling down at him, proud and content and relaxed in a way Dick scarcely thought possible.
Dick missed a step. He missed a breath, his heart skipped a beat and his face heat up not just out of embarrassment as Bruce’s laughter filled the room.
“Guess I spoke too soon,” Bruce had teased, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I never thought I’d see the day you’d stumble like that, chum.”
But how could he not? Dick’s entire world had just turned upside down, his little heart doomed by the undeniable and inevitable truth that had just dawned on him. A truth that would force Dick to lie to Bruce for the rest of his life.
Dick also failed to mention that just last winter, when a snowstorm had stranded him in Gotham, Dick found Bruce in his study, humming to the song as the vinyl played. The fireplace was lit, the lights all off, and Bruce invited him inside with a small smile. The two sat in silence company, and as Dick listened to Bruce’s voice, as he watched the way the shadows and the light of the played with his features, as he saw how relaxed the man’s shoulder were, he felt himself fall just a little bit more in love with Bruce Wayne.
“Bruce Wayne is sentimental,” Dick found himself saying, before he could get lost in the realms of memory, dwelling too long on his own longings and forgetting that he’d come to the Manor to appease Bruce’s broken heart. “He keeps Jason’s toolbox — the first toolbox he ever got the Jay — in the garage still. It’s right by Thomas Wayne’s, because though Bruce never says it, he secretly thinks the two would have gotten along very well. Bruce keeps every drawing Damian ever made, and frames every picture Tim ever took, and though he could buy his friends and his family literally anything they want, he spends far too much time anxiously pondering on what they’d like for their birthdays or for Christmas. He keeps the queen from the chess set Alfred used to teach him how to play inside the right drawer in his desk, and he takes it out whenever he is thinking about something to do with his childhood. He spends an absolute fortune in keeping his gardens just the way his mother liked even though the only reason he knows the difference between dahlias and peonies is because he has to worry about Ivy every now and again.”
Bruce frowned, “Dahlias and peonies are nothing alike.”
“My point exactly.”
Despite himself, Bruce’s lips quirked into the slightest smile. He was starting to believe Dick’s words. Perhaps not fully yet, but the crease between his brows was replaced by a softness in his features, his hands now relaxed, his jaw slackened. There was still a certain stiffness to his back that betrayed the slightest discomfort, but it was fading ever so slowly as Bruce was reminded that, no matter how vulnerable or exposed he might currently feel, he would never — never — be in danger when in the presence of his first Robin.
Dick ran his fingertips over the surface of the desk. He grabbed a picture frame, smiling as he admired the photograph of the two of them dressed in their sleeping clothes, hot cocoa in their hands, so lost in a conversation that they didn’t even notice Tim with his camera until the sound of the aperture interrupted them.
“You didn’t mention anything about you,” Bruce observed. His eyes studied Dick with an intense scrutiny that Dick did not remember being directed his way in a long time — perhaps not since Jason’s death and Tim’s appearance forced them to reconcile. “About the things I keep to remind myself of you.”
Dick placed the photo back on the desk. The little robin was still singing outside.
Dick’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Bruce Wayne carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Not simply because he’s Batman, but because… Because he is overly aware of how privileged he is. He understands his fortune gives him advantages in life that most people can only dream of. He knows all of that, and so he sees it as his moral obligation to use his money and influence to make Gotham and the world better,” Dick’s arms wrapped around himself, his eyes fixed on the photo of the two of them. “And yet, that same fortune that millions of people would kill for — have killed for — has made him so lonely. It alienated him from the rest of world, it… It dehumanized him to the very same people he works so hard to help. Bruce Wayne may act as if the tabloids don’t bother him, but when he was a child… ” Dick shook his head. “It’s funny, because for all that Gothamites try to get in his good graces, the forget the way they treated Bruce when he was a boy who witnessed a horror no person should ever experience. When Bruce Wayne lost his parents, Gotham forgot that he was just a child, and they acted like he had no right to grieve, no right to be angry, no right to be traumatized because he had money. They acted like an empty Manor didn’t haunt him rather than comfort him, they acted like the numbers in his bank account could replace his father’s hand ruffling his hair or the warmth of his mother’s hug. Those who didn’t act absolute disgusted at the mere suggestion of expressing sympathy for a boy who witnessed his own parents being murdered used that very same tragedy as a means to climb up the social and economic ladder. Not that it paid off, because even as a child Bruce Wayne was far smarter than them. And so, the very same privilege Bruce uses to better the world also isolates him from it. Both by their actions and his own because going through all of that while also having to deal with the grief of suddenly being an orphan made it so he wouldn’t trust his heart to people that easily. He didn’t… He didn’t put on a mask, but he did put up walls that to this day, are very hard to climb. But it’s worth the effort. Once you’re on the other side, you… Well, I can tell you from experience, once you’re on the other side of those walls, you never want to go back.”
Dick couldn’t bring himself to look at Bruce, even as he felt the man’s shadow cast over him, even if he could hear his breathing so close. Even though he knew Bruce must see his point by now, Dick continued to follow the robin’s beckoning song.
“Bruce Wayne is stubborn. He is the most stubborn man I have ever met and he is proud and I swear, sometimes I want to punch him in the jaw, or shake him, or just yell at him because he can get so set in his way that nothing short of a life-or-death scenario would get him to change his mind or admit that he is wrong. Maybe not even that,” Dick did not hear a chuckle or even a change in Bruce’s breathing. His shadow remained still. “But… But despite that stubbornness, Bruce Wayne is also the kindest person I’ve ever met. He’s… He’s kind in a quiet and understated way, you see. He doesn’t want recognition — in fact, he prefers for his kindness to go unacknowledged and if you want to see him fluster, just say ‘thank you,’ to him. And I think… I think that’s what makes his kindness unique. He does it because he wants to see other people happy, but rather than sharing in that happiness, he just… He slips back into the shadows. And he does it because even though he has a ridiculous amount of trouble processing and communicating his emotions — seriously, sometimes I get whiplash by how well he can present himself in the media compared to how emotionally constipated and socially inept he can be with his friends and… Well, even if he has trouble with all that, Bruce Wayne is still so incredibly empathetic that he can’t ignore people’s suffering. Even if he can’t do much about it, he’ll still do everything in his power and then more to help those in need. It’s why… It’s why he helped me. Bruce Wayne was the one who saved me, the one who got me out of the detention center, who gave me a home, a family, who was there for me when I was grieving and lost and confused. When my entire world fell apart, Bruce Wayne was the one who showed me how to put it back together. He was the one who showed me that though my world would always have cracks and it would look different from how it was before, that didn’t mean… It didn’t mean it was over. He did that. Not Batman. Bruce did.”
Dick felt his eyes sting. His arms were still crossed in front of his chest, his eyes fixed on that picture of Bruce and him, together. Bruce had gotten closer. It was Dick’s turn to feel so utterly vulnerable and exposed.
“Dick…”
Bruce tried to reach out, but Dick stepped back, leaving the older man’s hand hovering between them.
“Bruce Wayne,” Dick felt breathless as he spoke, the anger from earlier suddenly returning. “Is a fucking idiot.”
Bruce blinked. It was almost adorable how caught off guard he was by Dick’s statement. Despite everything, Dick found himself smiling.
“Batman may be the greatest detective in the world, but Bruce Wayne is a fucking oblivious idiot who goes around chasing skirts all over the world without realizing I’m right here! He goes around, getting his heart broken over and over again, going after women who leave, who don’t see him, or just bringing strangers to his bed when all he has to do is ask me to stay and I’d never leave his side.”
Dick finally found it in himself to fully look at Bruce. For so many years, he feared what he’d see in Bruce’s face the moment he realized the true nature of Dick’s feelings for him. Would he be disgusted? Angry? Would he feel violated? Sad? Would he pity Dick? Perhaps if any of those emotions had shown in his features, Dick would have stopped himself from restating that which was already so obvious, but as only silent astonishment met his confession, he kept going.
“Bruce Wayne,” Dick enunciated each syllable slowly, his eyes fixed on Bruce’s. “Is my everything. I love Batman with all my heart and I would burn down the world for him if I had to, but that doesn’t mean Bruce is not real. I’ve been in love with Bruce Wayne for what feels like my entire life. So don’t you ever say that he is just a mask when he is my everything because I will never let anyone, not even you, get away with saying such bullshit.”
A solitary cloud passed in front of the sun, shrouding the room with shadows. Bruce said nothing, staring at Dick with that same stunned expression. The wind whistled softly outside, the tree branches rustling gently along with its melody. As the seconds stretched and the silence remained, the angry fire that been raging inside Dick was extinguished by a steady shower of shame.
“I’m sorry,” Dick sighed. His eyes flickered back to the picture on top of the desk, his shoulders sagging with guilt. “I… I stand by what I said. Bruce Wayne — you — are not a mask. You’re more than just Batman. But I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have said anything about… I shouldn’t have said the rest. I didn’t mean to say it.”
Dick ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a rueful laugh. How could he had possibly forgotten the reason why he was at the Manor? Why did he suddenly forget how this conversation had started? Bruce was hurting. His heart was broken. He was dealing with a breakup that had apparently been severe enough to bring to the surface horrible insecurities and self-destructive thoughts that Dick, in their almost twenty years together, had fought his damn hardest to eradicate. The last thing he needed was to now have to deal with his former ward’s love confession.
“Forget I said anything,” Dick said. “Well, no, that’s not right. Forget I said anything about how I… About that. The rest… The rest you have to remember, though. You’re not just a mask, Bruce, you’ll never be just a mask. Don’t… Don’t cling to that, just because it’s easier. Simpler. Less… Messy and complicated. Don’t sell yourself short like that. Please. Don’t think so poorly of yourself. People may not get you, but that doesn’t mean… That doesn’t mean that there aren’t those of us who don’t see you. Who don’t care. You… You are so much more than you give yourself credit for, B. If only you could see yourself the way I do, then maybe… Please, don’t ever say that about yourself again. Or I will have to punch you in the face.”
Dick’s self-deprecating laugh felt awkward and heavy. The ever-gracious young man suddenly felt too big for his skin, felt too naked under those eyes that still stared at him as if they couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening.
“I’ll… I guess I’ll go see if Alfred needs help with Haley,” Dick shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes now traveled to the door. He wished for nothing more than to be on the other side of it. “We’ll meet up for dinner before patrol? Of course, you can call me if you need me before then, but I really should… Well… I should leave you to it.”
Dick turned around, determined to leave, to seclude himself in his room, to lick his wounds, and figure out there how he would handle this situation, to see if it would be best for Bruce if he returned to Bludhaven earlier than expected. He would figure out how to face the man, prepare himself for the undoubtedly thoughtful yet excruciatingly awkward rejection that would soon come his way, figure out a way to make peace with the probability that Bruce might forever feel uncomfortable in his presence.
A hand grabbed his wrists. Dick stopped. For a moment, he considered what would happen if he didn’t turn around, if he’d just spared his heart further hurt by just walking through those doors and pretending nothing ever happened. But even as the thought formulated in his mind, Dick knew he wouldn’t follow through with it. He could never do that. Not to Bruce.
He turned around. Bruce stared at him with wide, anxious eyes. His lips were pressed together the way they did when a million thoughts warred inside his mind and none seemed willing to leave his mouth. The longer the silence stretched, the more agitated Bruce became, the stillness of his body betraying the absolute havoc going on inside that big head of his.
Then, a deep breath steeled his conviction. Bruce straightened his back, closed the distance between them with three steps, his grip on Dick’s wrist tightened. When he spoke, his voice was both Batman and Bruce, the single word carrying great power through the absolute certainty yet genuine vulnerability with which it was uttered. Outside, the little robin still sang.
“Stay.”
And Dick did.