Work Text:
Batman and Robin had just returned from patrol, clock nearing three a.m. when Bruce pulled himself out of the Batmobile, hearing the echo of the car door reverberate through the cave underneath Dick’s chattering about how cool they looked kicking bad guy butt. They had accomplished a lot in Gotham tonight, escaping with only mild injuries, a few scuffs and bruises, Bruce being the only one who bled due to a knife grazing over his inner forearm.
It was nothing he couldn’t handle, barely even remembering that he was bleeding as he listened to Dick brag about a cool flip he did to escape the clutches of a bad guy. He didn’t blame a nine year old for being so excited and proud of himself—not many nine year olds could do backflips whilst being attacked. Not many of them would even think to do a backflip to get out of that situation, but that’s what made Dick Grayson unique.
“And then at the very last second, woosh! I flipped myself over, and he didn’t know what happened! He got so confused I was able to kick away his knife!”
“I saw.”
“Wasn’t it awesome?! You thought it was awesome, right?!” Dick pleaded for approval, sliding his mask off and looking up at his guardian with bright eyes. “You were awesome, too, the way you grabbed that guy and launched him back into that other guy! And when I tripped that other guy right into your grasp, and then you—”
Bruce was busy getting his cowl and boots off, but he still noticed Dick suddenly stop in the middle of his story, glancing over as he slid his gloves off.
“I’m still listening,” He replied.
“No, it’s…you’re bleeding, Bruce!” Dick pointed to his left arm, expression dropping in concern. “Are you okay? Does it hurt bad?”
“I’m fine—hardly a scratch. I’ll clean it up after I shower.”
Bruce stood up, ready to burn himself in a hot shower and get a few hours of sleep, but as he went to walk away, two tiny hands latched onto his cape, holding him back. When Bruce glanced over his shoulder, Dick was furrowing his eyebrows in disapproval, lips pouting out like a child throwing a tantrum.
“Alfred says you shouldn’t shower until your wounds are covered. I’ll do it for you!”
“It’s fine, Dick, really,” Bruce tried to convince him, turning around to show him that the cut on his arm wasn’t bleeding anymore. “It won’t even need stitches. I’ll just throw a bandaid on it tomorrow.”
“Alfred says I need to learn how to clean and dress injuries—they’re crucial skills!” Dick insisted. “Sit!”
“How come you listen to everything Alfred says, but when I tell you to do something you have to argue for seven minutes?”
“Because Alfred is always right! Now sit!”
Dick tried his best to yank Batman’s cape, not succeeding in pulling Bruce back even an inch, but he kept trying, huffing and grunting with effort. Bruce really didn’t want to have a tug of war match right now—all he wanted was to take a nice, long shower and fall into bed before his six meetings as Bruce Wayne tomorrow. When Dick got into moods like this, though, there wasn’t much to be done except give in.
Following another minute of contemplating, Bruce finally released a heavy sigh and sat down next to their medical station.
Dick beamed proudly, then quickly became serious, counting up to ninety as he thoroughly washed his hands and gathered the needed materials; it was odd, seeing such small hands handling medical supplies, Bruce almost telling him once more that none of this was at all necessary, but deciding to keep his mouth shut because yes—Alfred was right. Learning how to treat and care for wounds, no matter how minor, was a crucial skill in their line of work.
Bruce sat quietly, trying to be a good patient as Dick concentrated hard, mumbling instructions to himself along the way. He used a wet washcloth to gently wipe the area surrounding the four inch cut on Bruce’s forearm, getting as close to the wound as possible to ensure the skin was clean; using another corner of the washcloth, he slowly dabbed the open part of the cut, soaking up a bit of blood.
“Tell me if it hurts, okay, Bruce?” Dick said seriously.
“It doesn’t hurt, Dick.”
“Well, tell me if it does!”
Dick finally put the washcloth aside, grabbing a small bottle of antiseptic spray and lightly spritzing some over the cut. He wiped up the excess, then carefully spread petroleum jelly onto a large square gauze piece, taking a long minute to line it up against Bruce’s cut before placing the gauze over it; Dick forgot to unroll a small amount of white bandage beforehand, managing to do so with one hand and wrapping it around Bruce’s forearm three times.
“Then we put some tape over the edges to keep it in place, and…there!” He announced triumphantly. “All better!”
“Thanks,” Bruce said, ruffling the boy’s sweaty hair and standing up to leave.
“Hold on!” Dick stopped him again, jumping in front of Bruce, who tried not to sigh in frustration. “I forgot the most important part!”
Bruce wasn’t about to ask what that was, not having to as Dick lifted the man’s arm up and did something completely unexpected: he leaned forward and placed a light, gentle kiss onto Bruce’s covered injury.
“Mwuah!” Dick puckered, looking back up at Bruce and smiling sweetly. “Booboos always heal quicker with a kiss!”
Bruce was too stunned to move or speak, staring at the bandage Dick had kissed as his mind went blank. No one had kissed his ‘booboo’ since…well, Bruce couldn’t even remember when, but it was probably sometime before his parents died. The cave was oddly quiet, not a machine whirring in the background or a single bat fluttering around above; Dick waited around for something, still smiling up at Bruce, proud of himself for being able to help. The silence stretched on, wound underneath his bandage tingling slightly.
“…Go shower and get to bed,” Bruce forced out in a strained voice, not knowing what else to say.
“Oh—okay,” Dick nodded, smile breaking, but only for a second. “Goodnight.”
“Yeah…goodnight.”
Dick skipped off to the elevator, humming to himself as it took him out of the cave and into the manor. Bruce found himself unable to move from his spot for a long time, going through the motions as he finally managed to get into the shower, taking extra care to not get his left arm too wet—as if that would somehow preserve the little kiss Dick placed on it and truly give it the power to heal quicker.
~~*~~
Bruce thought about that incident every time he looked at his arm, now only covered by a simple bandaid underneath his batsuit a few weeks later. It wasn’t on his mind now, though, hurrying out of the Batmobile to open Robin’s door before he could. Dick hadn’t been terribly hurt on patrol, but his right ankle was out of whack, the rest of the leg torn up from falling onto gravel during a scrummage with a thug. Bruce wanted to get it cleaned as soon as possible, before any infection could set in.
“Come on,” Bruce said, opening the door and swooping Dick into his arms before he could protest. “We need to take a look at your leg.”
“Aw, Bruce!” Dick complained lightly, still letting himself be carried to the examination table without putting up a fight. “It’s just a few scrapes…it doesn’t even—”
Dick hissed when Bruce grabbed his ankle, testing its stretch to see if any muscles had been pulled or damaged; the joints were swollen, but so far there was no visible bruising, which meant it was likely just rolled. As long as he stayed off that foot for a few days (which would be an impossible task for Dick), Bruce thought it would be better in no time. The scrapes looked worse than they were, several red splotches decorating Dick’s bare skin from the thigh all the way down to his calf muscle, thick blood droplets smeared here and there, little bits of rock and dirt stuck to them.
I really regret not making him wear pants, Bruce thought, pulling off his gloves and cowl.
“Are we going to chop the leg off, doctor?” Dick joked. Telling jokes was better than crying—Bruce never knew what to do when Dick cried except hold him in silence.
“I think you’ll survive,” Bruce answered, frowning at a particular scrape that was deeper than the others, probably the point of impact when Dick fell, dozens of rock pieces and dirt imbedded in the wound. “But if I can’t get these bits of gravel out, we may have to bring in Dr. Pennyworth.”
“Oh no!”
“Oh yes. I think I can manage, but only as long as you sit still.”
Dick grumbled, but did as he was told, moving so his right leg was in the sink, watching Bruce spray over the wounds to loosen the debris off the skin. Most of it came off right away, Bruce using his other hand to gently wipe off the blood and dirt, being careful not to press too hard on the deeper opening; once most of the debris was off, Bruce nudged Dick back onto the examination table, propping a towel under the boy’s right knee so he could work.
Using a wet rag, Bruce pressed against the cut, a bit of blood staining the rag, but not so much that he was alarmed. It took some patience, some careful prodding and dabbing, but the little particles of dirt mostly came off, allowing Bruce to spray the area in preparation for a bandaid.
“Does it hurt at all, Dick?”
“Nah—I got hurt way worse in the circus. One time another kid dared me to do a flip over the bed of nails we used for the third act, so I did, only I didn’t make it all the way across, and some of my toes got ripped up by the nails. It hurt, but now I have some cool scars on my toes. See?”
Dick wiggled all ten of his toes at Bruce, who huffed as he pressed the long bandaid over the cut, pressing down firmly to ensure it stayed put. Knowing Dick, though, it would be wiggled loose by tomorrow morning. The other scrapes didn’t need bandaging, so Bruce tucked away the remaining supplies into their appropriate drawers.
“Well, I think you’ll survive—just don’t get any soap on it when you shower, and stay off that ankle for a few days. I’ll go see where we keep the crutches.”
Bruce turned and started to walk away, trying to remember where they kept the crutches when Dick suddenly called out.
“Wait!”
Dick was looking at Bruce with hopeful, shining blue eyes when he glanced over his shoulder, fingers picking at each other nervously as he squirmed on the examination table.
“Aren’t—Aren’t you gonna kiss it better?”
Bruce’s first instinct was to immediately say no—Batman didn’t kiss booboos. Bruce Wayne didn’t, either. That was his first thought, but when Bruce considered how he as a child would feel if an adult refused to kiss his ‘booboo’ better, he realized that would be a horrible response. He couldn’t say no. That would be cruel. It would be especially cruel to refuse Dick, whose gentle, loving parents probably kissed his injuries without being begged, without even being prompted.
No…Bruce couldn’t refuse Dick’s innocent request—but how could he do it? How did he do it? It really couldn’t be that difficult. Just a simple kiss against Dick’s bandaged leg, nothing too complicated…
Bruce’s boots felt heavier than usual as he slowly walked back to the examination table. Dick eagerly bent his leg to give Bruce easier access to the bandaged portion, trying to hide his tiny smile behind his knee; pushing away whatever doubts he had about his parenting skills, Bruce leaned over, only hesitating for a split second before softly laying his lips against the bandaid, making a low puckering sound.
Bruce straightened up slowly, immediately looking to Dick’s face to gauge his reaction, to see if he had done it right—for a moment, he thought maybe he messed up somehow, because Dick was still hiding behind his knee, but when the boy finally shifted a little, Bruce caught a glimpse of his pleased little smile and felt relieved beyond words.
“See? Now it’ll be healed in no time,” Dick said quietly.
Seeing how happy such an intimately simple act made Dick, Bruce really believed him this time.