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When Dick looks at Bruce his eyes always travel to the grey in his temples. Little lines streak there like rivers of light amidst the black. They hug him on one side and the other.
They are relatively new but they seem to have been there forever as of late.
Grey hairs.
“Hey Bruce,” Dick says with a smile. His dad lifts up his head. He’s been reading; he’s got his small glasses on, they always make Dick laugh, they make his father look funny.
“Hey, Dick,” Bruce answers, and his deep, rich voice is fond and full of love. Things his dad usually reserved for world-ending catastrophes to say. Things that Dick doesn't need to be told out loud. He knows Bruce better than anyone, after all.
“So, have you decided which retirement home you’d like us to drop you off at when the time comes?” He says without stopping to think about the words leaving his mouth.
Bruce frowns for a fraction of a second before he narrows his eyes at Dick. He lifts his left hand up to his temple in a half-aborted motion. Dick notes it’s almost self-conscious.
“Very funny,” Bruce deadpans. “I haven’t had time to touch them up lately.”
Dick’s eyes widen a little.
“How long have you been dyeing your hair?” He asks, almost failing to mask his uncertainty.
“A lot of years now,” Bruce answers with a questioning look, a ‘ you should’ve noticed this before ’ look.
Bruce closes his book and takes off his reading glasses, already well-versed in the science that is Richard Grayson. He’s in a talkative mood, and Bruce is not going back to read for a couple of minutes at least.
“Though much less as of late. I used to cover them all up but I’ve had less time to do it recently, I forget and then people notice.” He raises a knowing eyebrow at his son, calling him out.
Dick chuckles, slightly abashed, but not too much. It’s always fun bothering Bruce. But his heart pangs with uncertainty as his eyes slip towards the grey lining his dad’s temples. He doesn’t like the idea that one day he’ll have to bury another father. In their line of work, probably sooner rather than later. ‘ A lot of years now, ’ Bruce had said.
He’s known Bruce for so long too, it’s mind boggling to think he’s known this man for almost two decades, two decades . It must be hard too, doing vigilant work as grueling as the Batman’s at this age. Even old, talented gymnast who are fit as a fiddle begin to feel the weight of years on them. His dad is not getting any younger.
Dick swallows and tears his eyes away from the light lines. His dad is staring at him, knowingly, with eyes that dissect you and turn you inside out. Directed at his son though, it is an action done with care behind it.
“Anyway.” Bruce pops his glasses back on suddenly. “I’m not going to go to a retirement home,” he says matter of fact, searching for the page he left off.
“Oh yeah?” Dick grins.
“That is correct. Alfred will never die, therefore, he’ll always be there to take care of me,” Bruce states with the seriousness he employs to mission reports.
Dick Grayson bursts out laughing.
He can agree with that sentiment wholeheartedly. He too wishes his dad would never die.