Work Text:
Long may you reign
"Bruce?" The childish voice (that should be asleep at what-o-clock in the morning) makes Bruce want to jump up, music turned off by the phone falling on the ground and breaking as he spins around in shock and the tiniest bit of fear.
But he's Batman; so he only lets himself pause the music before turning to look at Dick.
...And tries valiantly not to blush because Dick has found him listening to Taylor Swift. He already knows his secret identity, so what if he also learns Batman is a Swiftie?
"-This is our song." Dick blinks, and Bruce's gut clenches when tears start sliding down the boy's face. "My song. How did you-?"
Uh oh.
Dick Grayson reminds Bruce of himself so much it makes his teeth hurt. The kid isn't like him at all, except for their shared tragedy of watching their parents die at the age of eight. Dick has already, after only a month, proved that grief is not one-size-fits-all.
Bruce went silent, Dick talks and cries and in general expresses emotion in a mostly healthy way.
Bruce still can't look at guns without wanting to be violently sick some days, one of the first things Dick asked for was acrobatic equipment.
Bruce thought of killing his parent's killer, and instead made the choice to be better. Dick still very much wants to kill Zucco (hence the previous 'mostly healthy', though Bruce is certain Dick will make the right choice.)
Dick is a kid. An orphan, like him. With an itch to act, like him.
Bruce knows what song was playing: he doesn't even need to check. Bruce knows that Dick wants his vigilante name to be Robin.
My song.
"I didn't," Bruce awnsers, opening his arms in an offer. "I just like the song. Is that where you got the name from?"
Dick sniffs, nods, falls into Bruce's arms. Expecting, waiting.
It's become a routine this past month. Dick mentions something about his parents, and instead of saying some empty platitude or apology Bruce responds with something similar from his parents.
My dad sews- sewed all our costumes.
My mother wrote every invitation for galas by hand, her fingers were always covered in ink.
My mom taught me everything, she said Dad was just the muscle.
My dad would let me use his stethoscope and take his blood pressure.
We all shared a bed, I'm not used to this.
I'd sneak into my parent's room when I couldn't sleep; you can come to me when you need to. I understand.
"My mother called me 'spooky'," Bruce says into black hair, "Because I was always running around trying to find clues like Grey Ghost, and I was quiet enough to startle her."
"I-I'm Robin," Dick hiccups, "B-because they fly and sing, a-and Mom said I'd n-never s-top talking o-r f-f-flying-"
Bruce pulls the kid closer, holding him tighter. "You won't," he promises, "You won't."
Long may you roar
After Bruce puts Dick to sleep he quickly looks up 'Robin lyrics Taylor Swift'. It's almost four, and he gives up any pretense of sleep as he analyzes the lyrics wearing lenses of who he knows Mary and John Grayson to be based on what Dick has and hasn't said.
He's man enough to admit he cries. Eyes red, tears silent. Like always.
Dick's parents loved him so much. Bruce already knew that; Dick shows no signs of abuse or neglect, mourns his parents drastically and unapologetically.
But it's another thing to see it.
Robin is everything to Dick. Bruce wishes he could do something about it, but if someone started calling him Spooky again he'd probably hate them forever. But- that other lyric-
Bruce closes his eyes in a mockery of sleep, and thinks.
You got the dragonflies above your bed
Bruce knocks on Dick's door five minutes after his alarm for school should've gone off. Dick opens it, curiously. "Shouldn't you be in the shower?"
Maybe Bruce should; it's what he always does when he gets too little sleep and knows Dick's getting ready for the day so that he can look a little less dead while eating breakfast with the kid and talking with him in the backseat while Alfred drives them to Gotham Academy.
But Dick is more important, will always be more important now, than routine. "If you want I can call you in as sick."
"What? Why?" Dick's eyes get wide, glint dangerously, and Bruce knows the next question will be about Zucco. He cuts it off.
"I wanted to talk about that song." Bruce pauses, wants to fidget, relaxes instead. "The artist, Taylor Swift, has a lot of other music, if you'd like to listen to it with me. She's one of my favorite singers. And- I won't call you Robin except for in capes, I'm not trying to replace your parents-"
"You're my best friend," Dick agrees, and he looks like he's about to cry again.
"So I thought, maybe, since it's familiar-" Bruce hasn't been this bad at communicating in a while. "I could call you Tiger?"
Dick hiccups, laughs with tears streaming down his eyes. "Gosh Bruce, you're such a softy." Dick glances down at the phone and speaker Bruce is holding. "Yeah, yeah. It all sounds great. Can we listen in here?"
Bruce agrees, and enters the freshly-painted blue room with new eyes. He knows why Dick was so entranced by the stained glass dragonfly mobile when they went shopping for things in his room now. He knows Dick now.
"Hey, if we're doing nicknames I'm going to start calling you B! Get it? 'Cause you're always a B whether you're Bruce or Batman! Isn't that cool?"
This kid, Bruce thinks, is my best friend.
Way to go, Tiger.