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Batman pulled the Batmobile into the cave, letting it roll to a stop on its platform. The vehicle powered down, canopy sliding open, and he did a last once-over before climbing out.
Robin was a little slower to follow, fumbling for a moment with the seatbelt buckle. Batman narrowed his eyes, but the boy clambered out, landing with only a whisper of a sound. He tugged his cape off his shoulders — it was always the first to go whenever they returned to the Batcave — draping it over his arm as he moved to the central platform.
Robin was always tired after a patrol so none of his movements, while sluggish, were out of place. Though Batman protested against it, Robin was stubborn, and recently, patrols on school nights were running later and later. Yet his grades hadn’t dropped, and Batman hadn’t heard from any of his teachers about his behaviour or work ethic, so he had to be satisfied with that.
Still, he frowned as his partner walked ahead of him, the usual bounce to his stride missing.
“Robin,” Batman intoned.
The boy didn’t turn, peeling the mask from his face, arm dropping to his side with it held loosely between his fingers.
“Robin…” Batman tried again. He pulled his own cowl back, running his hands through his hair to fix up where it had been flattened. Robin still didn’t respond, tossing his cape over the back of the chair at the computer. He didn’t place it far enough back, the yellow fabric spilling to the ground as soon as he pulled his hands away. Robin inhaled, long and loud.
“Dick?”
Finally, he turned, forehead creased as he blinked up at Bruce. (Those creases had been hidden behind his mask, before. Had they been there all night?) “Y-yes?”
If there was something Bruce had learnt while having a young partner by his side, it was that the boy liked to talk. When they weren’t hiding in the shadows or staking out something, he would chat about anything and everything — school projects, books he was reading, how his practice in martial arts and gymnastics went, the cats he met out in the streets and what silly names he’d assigned them, what construction projects within the city were making progress and what had been halted by criminal activity — if it was something that could be commented on, Dick would do so.
His lack of commentary tonight, the silences stretching out longer as the night went on, was strange, and quite frankly, to Bruce (who had gotten used to it, comforted by the sound of the boy’s bright tones telling him he was safe and happy), was unnerving. Generally, the only times he was quieter was when —
“Have I done something to upset you?” Bruce asked, and Dick stared at him as if he’d grown an actual pair of bat ears atop his head.
“What makes you think that?” There was no accusation in his voice, just genuine confusion, and Bruce released an exhale.
He dropped down onto one knee, picking up Robin’s cape off the ground, dusting it off a little before setting it over his own arm. “You’ve just been quiet tonight, that’s all.”
Dick squinted into the middle distance, over Bruce’s shoulder. “… have I?”
He hadn’t realised? Bruce raked his eyes over Dick, trying to spot any visible injuries. His eyes were focused, both pupils at the same dilation, and though they were sporting dark rings, he seemed alert enough to pull a face when he noticed Bruce checking him over, cheeks puffed.
Nothing bleeding or out of place, aside from the bandaid on his shin and the half-healed scab on one knee.
“Beeeeeeeeee,” Dick cut through his thoughts, dragging the single syllable out. He slumped forward, setting his forehead on Bruce’s shoulder, before making a short noise and drawing back again, nose wrinkled. “Ow. Armour.”
That drew a chuckle from Bruce, the sound rumbling in his chest. He gently tugged the mask from Dick’s hand. He tucked it soundly into the folds of the yellow cape still over his arm, looking back to Dick once he was done. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
Dick visibly stiffened, shoulders rising up closer to his ears. “Why do you think I’m hiding something?” he responded.
And there was the accusatory tone missing from before.
Dick’s honesty was something Bruce admired in the boy — he wasn’t entirely truthful all the time, he was aware — and it wasn’t always hard to spot the tells when he lied.
The way Dick’s eyes darted to the side when he spoke was a dead giveaway.
Bruce hummed, resting back on his haunches. “If I couldn't pick up on these things, I wouldn’t be a very good detective.”
Dick’s frowned, the creases in his brow thickening. “‘M not hiding anything,” he insisted. He brushed past Bruce to the edge of the platform, dropping to sit with his legs dangling over the side.
“Hn.” Bruce pushed himself to his feet, moving over to the uniform cases. He set Robin’s cape and mask in their rightful spots, closing the glass front with a soft click. He pulled off his own gloves and belt as he returned to the central space, dropping them onto a workbench as he passed.
Dick had tipped backwards so he was lying on the floor, staring at the stalactites growing down from the roof. He didn’t move as Bruce approached, casting his shadow over the boy.
“Dickie,” Bruce began, and Dick blinked flatly back up. Slowly, he rolled over, dragging himself up to his knees. He didn’t move any further, tracing a seam in the platform with his fingers. “I just want to help you, and I can’t do that if you’re not willing to tell me what’s going on.”
Dick ducked his head, hiding his face. “It’s nothing.”
Frustration leaked in through the edges of Bruce’s mood, and he pinched his nose for a moment to stave it away. “If it were nothing,” he said, crouching down to Dick’s level so he could meet his eyes, “then you wouldn’t be getting mad at me for asking.”
“Nuh-uh…” Dick retorted childishly (he was a child, Bruce was jarringly reminded), sinking into himself. He took another deep breath, turning his face further away from Bruce.
“Richard,” Bruce said, and that was the wrong thing to say, judging by how fast Dick’s head shot up, fury in his glare.
“You don’t call me that,” he said, lip curling.
“Dick—”
“You don’t call me that,” Dick repeated.
“I know, I’m sor—”
“You’re not,” he cut Bruce’s apology off. “You’re not happy that I’m not giving you the answers you want, and you’re trying to get them in any way you can. I’m not playing that game.”
He got to his feet, once more shoving his way past Bruce, this time with more force. Bruce barely flinched back at the sudden show of aggression, simply watching at Dick threw himself into the chair at the Batcomputer, spinning it around with the force.
“I’m not treating it as a game,” Bruce said calmly, “I’m expressing concern.”
“Lousy way of showing it,” Dick muttered, folding his arms.
Bruce fought against raising an eyebrow, though he apparently didn’t do a very good job of that, as Dick let out a derisive noise, turning so the chair’s back was to him.
Bruce didn’t reply, instead moving back to the workbench he’d dropped his gear onto. He started to go through the pouches of his utility belt, mentally noting what he’d need to replace. He pulled out his stock of batarangs, checking over each one in turn for damages.
”When I agreed to let you join me as Robin,” he started, holding a batarang up to the light to check the blade’s sharpness, “it was with the understanding that you would come to me — that you would trust me — with your problems, and we’d search for a solution together.”
“Wow,” Dick said, “that desperate you’re breaking out the big ones from the start?”
Bruce set the batarang down, releasing a slow breath before turning around, resting back against the bench.
Dick had turned the chair slightly again, a single eye peeking out at Bruce from around the side. When he caught Bruce’s gaze, he slipped out of sight again, once more making a deep inhaling noise; something Bruce finally registered as a sniff.
All at once it became clear.
Dick Grayson was sick.
Bruce had to be tactful about this, judging by how increasingly touchy Dick was becoming. He decided the best course of action would be pretending to ignore the boy, shifting across the room to the computer. There was no point in forcing Dick from his seat, instead standing in front of the terminal, and he pulled up all the relevant files to the night’s patrol, flicking them onto a secondary screen so he could get started on the debrief.
Dick, to his credit, didn’t turn the chair around again, instead watching Bruce work in silence.
Filling out the details was almost mechanical at this point, marking out any changes in mob movements, any word from people on the street that he’d need to follow up on. It had been a relatively quiet night, with all the major rogues either laying low or detained. He tagged the documents accordingly with a few deft clicks, Dick occasionally sniffling behind him.
Bruce let his mind wander as he continued to work, thoughts eventually returning to the boy behind him. He was small enough still that Bruce often questioned whether he was doing the right thing in allowing him into the city to help in his crusade, but knew ultimately it was the safest possible choice he could make. Still, his youth was clear, not in just how small he was in stature, but in his face. Dick was currently missing an incisor, the gap obvious whenever he smiled, though he wasn’t doing much of that presently. He was nearly ten, now—
Bruce faltered, and stole a glance at the display in the corner of his screen.
It was already past midnight. Dick’s birthday had arrived.
He bit back a curse, looking over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if Dick himself was aware of the fact, curled up in the computer chair with his knees tucked under his chin, eyes darting over the various monitors and information displayed, yet not focusing on anything. As he watched, Dick sniffed again, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
“Alfred won’t be happy you’ve gotten snot on your glove,” Bruce said casually, only to receive a look. Dick pointedly wiped his nose again.
Bruce made sure his files were backed up before he turned the screens off, turning fully to face Dick, sitting back against the desk and folding his arms.
“Dick,” he started, and his expression shifted almost imperceptibly, sinking behind his knees until only his eyes were peeking out at Bruce.
Bruce’s gaze narrowed, before he realised how confrontational he probably looked. He softened, relaxing his stance and setting his hands on the desk either side of him rather than folding them across his chest. Instead, he crossed his legs at the ankles, purposefully putting himself off balance, opening his body language more, making sure he was as little a threat as possible.
“Dick,” he restarted, softer this time. “How long have you felt sick?”
The increasingly frequent crease between Dick’s brows was back, and he slowly reappeared from behind his knees. “I… don’t?”
Bruce’s eyebrow went up.
“I’m just tired,” Dick mumbled, finding the corner of the bandaid plastered to his shin and picking at it.
“You’re not usually this grumpy when you’re tired,” Bruce said, and Dick shrugged, squishing one cheek into his knees.
“I’m not sick,” he said, sticking the bandaid down, only for it to curl at the edge again, “I haven’t got a sore tummy or thrown up or anything.”
“Surely you know those aren’t the only ways you can be sick,” Bruce said, momentarily thrown for a loop at Dick using the word tummy, once again reminded just how young he was. “You have a runny nose. Anything else? Headache? Fever? You haven’t been coughing or sneezing—”
Dick frowned. “I don’t get sick.”
This conversation was leading back down the same roads as earlier. Bruce let the topic drop, pushing himself upright. “I’m going to decontaminate and change,” he announced.
“Alright,” Dick replied dully.
“You should do the same.”
“Alright.”
Bruce got out of the suit quickly, unwilling to leave Dick alone for long when he was clearly under the weather. He kept replaying the night in his head, mentally backtracking through their patrol. He hadn’t noticed any of Dick’s symptoms when they were out, but that didn’t fill him with any sense of reassurance. Alfred had always told him he had a one-track mind when wearing the cowl, and he loathed to agree, as much as he knew the man to be correct in his assessment.
Dick had been partially right, however — in the time he’d been under Bruce’s care, he hadn’t once been sick, aside from the occasional runny nose and itchy eyes that came from facing Poison Ivy. It was possible he rarely got sick in the first place and couldn’t recognise the signs, especially if he were so young as to not recall the previous time.
Bruce winced a little when he ran across a new bruise on his torso, but none of his ribs felt particularly tender so he let it be, instead throwing on the t-shirt and pants he’d been wearing before going out. He tugged on a robe over the top, returning to the central part of the cave, before coming to an awkward halt.
Dick had taken off his gloves and outer tunic, throwing them in an unceremonious pile.
He had also thrown himself into an unceremonious pile, mere metres from the computer chair. As Bruce watched, worried he’d fallen unconscious, Dick rolled over so he was lying face down.
He groaned something into the floor.
“Pardon?”
Dick raised his head just enough to get his mouth off the ground. “I said, I’m tiireeed.”
Bruce couldn’t help the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth, hiding it from the boy by going to place his suit in its case. He was tucking the cape into place when Dick mumbled again.
Bruce looked over. “Yes?”
Dick lifted one arm into the air, before dropping it again. “My body is one big ache,” he complained.
“I did ask,” Bruce said lightly, clicking the glass front of the case shut, “if you had other symptoms.”
“I. Don’t. Get. Sick.” Dick insisted, “I’m. Tired.”
“Hn.”
Even from his position on the ground, Dick was able to send a sharp look in Bruce’s direction. “Don’t hn me in that tone.”
“What tone?” Bruce replied, managing to keep a straight face.
“Your ‘I don’t believe you’ tone.” Dick said, before he gave a loud sniff, face returning to the floor. “‘S diff’rent to your ‘you’re right ‘n I don’t wanna admit it’ tone.”
“Hn.”
“See?”
Bruce let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “You got me there,” he said, “but please, give me a proper answer— how do you feel?”
Dick sniffed. “Like I need a box of tissues.”
That was probably the closest to admittance Dick was going to get, and Bruce nodded to himself, finally returning to the central platform.
Dick let out an extended groan, grappling uselessly at the air behind his back. He muttered a few words that, if Alfred had heard, would have him adding some change to the jar.
“Care to repeat that?” Bruce asked lightly.
Dick paused, hands floating uselessly in the air for another second before they crashed down next to him again. “I said I’m…” he descended into another set of mumbles, these ones less distinct but presumably more child-rated.
“Pardon?”
Dick lifted his head, chin resting on the ground, face scrunched up in annoyance. “I said, I’m stuck in my uniiifoooorm,” he repeated loudly.
Bruce stared at Dick in surprise. The underlayer of his Robin uniform had a zip closure at the back, but Dick had never once struggled to take it off, easily reaching behind himself to undo it.
Though with the way he was lying on the ground, face down and grumbling softly to himself, told Bruce that there was perhaps a first time for everything. The fond smile flitted over his face once more.
”Come here, chum,” he murmured, beckoning Dick over.
It took Dick a minute to pick himself up off the floor, dragging himself into a seated position, and another to haul himself to his feet, shuffling over to Bruce.
He turned around to give Bruce better access to the zip, Bruce quickly pulling it down. He frowned, leaning a little closer and letting his hand hover over Dick’s bare skin.
“Turn to face me?” Bruce requested quietly.
Dick did so, a little unsteady as he did. Bruce set the back of his hand against Dick’s cheek, then his forehead, the boy wincing as cold hands met with warm skin.
The sickness had set in quickly, it seemed; Dick’s temperature was creeping its way up towards a fever. The Cave’s temperature and general dampness probably didn’t help matters. He needed to get Dick back up into the manor to prevent it worsening, before Alfred came at him with the fury of a thousand suns.
“Go put on something warmer and head upstairs,” Bruce said, shooing Dick off, “Don’t worry about putting your uniform away properly, I’ll do it.”
Dick’s brow furrowed. “But—”
“It’s fine,” Bruce assured, “I’ll handle it.”
“But—”
“Dick,” Bruce let a little sternness leak into his voice, going to pick up the gloves and red tunic. “That’s an order.”
Dick’s protests died on his tongue, and he instead mumbled a “Yessir…” wincing as he tried to stand up straighter, before ultimately slouching down again.
Bruce nudged Dick’s shoulder. “Go on.”
Dick nodded slowly, once, before turning to go, peeling his leotard off his arms as he went. “I’ll be back down when…” he trailed off when he caught the look Bruce gave him.
“The Batcave will be off limits for the rest of the night,” Bruce said, “I’ll be out shortly, okay?”
Bruce located where Dick had dropped his utility belt, setting it down on the workbench next to his own, folding the tunic neatly instead of moving to place it back in the case— there was no point, with it still missing the layer underneath.
Dick reappeared several minutes later, fumbling with the buttons on a set of flannel pyjamas, nose wrinkled in frustration as he struggled to thread the button through its hole. Bruce noted with some amusement that it wasn’t even the correct one, his shirt misaligned.
He knelt down in front of Dick for what felt like the hundredth time that night, fixing up the buttons while Dick watched.
“Sorry…” he muttered, winding his arm around Bruce’s hands to wipe at his nose.
“For what?” Bruce asked.
“‘M nine. Shouldn’t need help getting dressed.”
”Ten, actually,” Bruce corrected, smoothing down Dick’s collar. Dick always preferred it up against his neck, the placement of it an ongoing feud between the two of them. It was a testament to how exhausted he was that he didn’t even attempt to flick it up again.
Dick snapped to sudden awareness, staring up at Bruce. “What?”
Bruce gave him a wry smile. “You’re ten now.”
Dick continued to stare at Bruce with big round eyes, as if he didn’t quite believe him.
“It’s past midnight,” Bruce elaborated. “Happy birthday, Dickie.”
Dick’s face moved through several emotions before settling into neutrality, the crease that had been in his brows recently returning. “It’s not my birthday until I wake up…”
“Then the sooner you get to sleep the better, hm?” Bruce nodded towards the steps. “Off you go.”
Dick didn’t move.
“I’m nearly done,” Bruce said, “I’ll check in on you later, okay?”
The boy folded his arms, mustering up his energy to give Bruce a disapproving look. “Alfie says you need to spend less time down here,” he said.
Bruce was well aware of that. He knew it was hard to get him out of the cave on a good night, despite Alfred’s warnings that sitting in the dark was bad for his health. It had only been with the arrival of the young Dick that the lights in the cave were on more often, the boy hating the way the shadows in the cave lengthened when they were off. The edges of the platforms had been lined with strip lights only after a two-pronged attack from both Dick and Alfred, claiming not only better visibility in the dim setting, but also safety from sudden drop-offs.
Alfred’s current battle was against Bruce staring at screens too long, claiming he needed to take better care of his eyesight if he still wanted any by the time he was forty.
Bruce wasn’t sure how much of that was true and how much was a ploy to keep him from looking over files too long.
Still, Bruce hummed to himself, watching as Dick slowly clambered up the steps from the cave to the manor, almost on all fours as he made his way up.
“Stop watching me, B,” Dick complained, tossing his head back to direct his words to the cave ceiling, “I’m not going to pass out if you take your eyes off me.”
”Not what I’m worried about,” Bruce replied, “If I look away I fear you’ll come right back down.”
Dick squinted back at him. “I wouldn’t.” A pause. “You don’t know all my hiding spots.”
“I do,” Bruce said, “if I catch you down here again tonight, Robin is benched for the next week.”
Dick’s mouth snapped shut, and he scrambled up the rest of the steps, sealing the clock over the entrance after him. The dull thrum echoed off the cave walls, followed by the flutter of disturbed bats. They settled down again, and so did Bruce, turning once more to his workbench. He did a quick inventory of Robin’s utility belt, noting what gear the boy made the most use of and needed restocking, replacing the spare grapple line with a new one (it hadn’t been used yet, but Bruce regularly changed them out to make sure the cable was in prime condition when it was needed).
By the time he looked up from his work, nearly a half hour had passed, and he grimaced, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, holding them there for a moment. He had told Dick he wouldn’t stay too long.
His thoughts, like they had been for most of the night, drifted to Dick as he climbed the stairs out of the Batcave. He wasn’t Dick’s father; both of them knew this as fact. But the longer Dick remained in Bruce’s care the more the line blurred. Dick insisted he didn’t need a father, and Bruce agreed that he didn’t want to replace the one that Dick had lost. But still; even if not by name, Bruce was filling in the role, and part of those duties involved the goodnight routine.
A routine that was increasingly hard when he was going out every night in a cowl to fight crime.
Directly against Bruce’s best efforts, Dick had formed a habit of waiting for Bruce to come back upstairs before going to sleep, even on nights that he didn’t patrol with him. Bruce had found the boy on more than one occasion waiting for him in the study, curled up in a ball in a chair, Zitka tucked in his arms as he fought off sleep.
He hoped with the illness that Dick had come down with, he didn’t wait up this time, too exhausted to even try. But Bruce knew Dick was stubborn, often to his own detriment. Still, even if he had made an attempt, Bruce hoped the old butler had the wisdom to send him off to bed.
Bruce clicked the grandfather clock into place behind him, turning around only to come face to face with Alfred.
He didn’t jump — he’d trained the physical reaction out of himself — but he did startle a little.
“I had no intention of patrol lasting past midnight,” Bruce defended immediately, and Alfred’s eyebrows raised a little.
”On a school night no less, sir,” he said cooly, “on his birthday, no less.”
”It wasn’t meant to go so long!” Bruce insisted, dragging a hand down his face.
”You always do seem to get carried away, I will agree on that observation,” Alfred said, “however, the boy is clearly under the weather. I have my doubts that being out this late did him any good, especially with the…”
”The lack of trousers, I know,” Bruce completed, “Alfred, you’ve told him that several times. You haven’t convinced him of it yet.”
”Hm. Well, one day he’ll come to the conclusion that crime fighting is better done in tights than with his knees completely bare.”
Bruce huffed. He started to make his way down the hall towards Dick’s room, Alfred falling into stride next to him. “Please tell me you didn’t let Dick stay up for me,” he said.
“I control him as much as I do you,” Alfred replied. “I can suggest things to you, yes, but I cannot make you listen.” he paused in front of Dick’s bedroom door, eyes skimming over the nameplate. “I did get him into bed, however, if that is what you’re asking.”
Bruce’s gaze dropped to the floor, where light still filtered through the crack at the bottom of the door. It was much too bright for it to simply be Dick’s nightlight.
“Master Richard?” Alfred called.
“Careful,” Bruce murmured, “he blew up at me for full naming him earlier.”
Alfred ignored him, rapping his knuckles against the solid oak. “Richard,” he repeated, “Master Bruce is here to wish you a good night.”
“Dick?” Bruce said softly, and Alfred stepped back to give him some sense of privacy. “Can I come in?”
“No.” Came Dick’s reply, grumpy and soft. A pause. Bruce didn’t move from the door, waiting.
There was a rustling, before the door opened a crack, and Dick stared out at Bruce, eye bright with suspicion. “Why are you here?”
“It’s just as Alfred said,” Bruce replied, unphased, “I want to wish you a good night.”
Dick stepped back to let his door open further, allowing Bruce entry to his room.
Despite having been with Bruce for a little while now, Dick’s room was still impersonal, decorated sparsely, like he was still afraid of leaving at any moment. Bruce had assuaged his own fears of that happening some time ago, when Dick had first declared himself Batman’s partner, as it had been the first time Bruce had felt certain the boy would be a constant in his life from then on.
Dick made his way back over to his bed, clambering up onto it and sliding under the covers.
The Flying Graysons poster on the wall was one of the few things that gave the room a sense of identity, and Bruce let his eyes linger on it for a moment too long, leading Dick to follow his gaze, locking onto the painted smiles of his parents. His grip on Zitka tightened.
Bruce, time and time again, felt lost when raising the boy. Had there been things his parents did to care for their son when he was sick? Traditions, now lost? Their smiles were static, stage bright, not the warm ones saved for private moments.
(Did Dick remember what those ones looked like?)
Once the boy had sunken down into his pillows, elephant tucked firmly under his chin, Bruce softly cleared his throat. Dick’s gaze snapped away from the poster, locking onto Bruce, face shifting minutely. Bruce didn’t chase it. “How do you feel?” he asked instead.
Dick buried further under the sheets. “Great,” he muttered, what was visible of his face scrunched in distaste. “I got a cold for my birthday, how else am I meant to feel?”
Bruce set himself down on the edge of the bed, resting a hand briefly atop Dick’s hair. “On the bright side,” he said, keeping his tone light, “You get your birthday off school.”
Dick shot him a look, and he drew back with a sigh. “I know,” Bruce continued, “being sick on your birthday is no fun. I’m sorry.”
Dick sniffed. “‘S not your fault.”
“Maybe not,” Bruce replied, “but I should’ve noticed sooner. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have…”
“Let me on patrol?” Dick said, expression darkening.
Bruce held back yet another sigh. How many missteps was he going to make tonight? Dick had always been quick to boil over, but the sickness setting in had only shortened his fuse.
Still, the night had been long, and Dick was still young. His blinks were getting longer, and he didn’t hold onto the anger, face smoothing out again. He yawned, tucking himself almost entirely beneath the sheet.
“Can you stay tonight?”
“I have to finish up in the Ca—” he cut himself off at Dick’s eyebrows pulling together. “Of course.”
Dick mumbled something else, lost to the folds of his blankets. Bruce considered asking for Dick to repeat it, but the boy’s eyes were already sliding closed, taking a deep breath as he settled down to sleep.