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After the funeral, Bruce goes directly to the Batcave. There is so much work to be done - Diana Prince’s dubious but determined acquiescence throws open a wealth of possibilities, the study of Luthor's hidden empire even more - but before any of that, even Bruce has to admit, a few hours of chemically dreamless sleep would not go amiss. As ever, however, it seems that the universe has other plans; the cave’s still, musty air echoes with the sound of voices, Alfred’s quiet sarcasm layered with old warmth in response to the frenetic rise and fall of a familiar, longed-for laugh.
Dick Grayson, twenty-four years old. He’s sprawled insouciantly across the camp bed Bruce keeps tucked under the heat and white noise of a bank of servers, Alfred perched on a stool at his side.
"Ah, Master Bruce," Alfred exclaims as he edges towards them. "One moment, sir. I’ll fetch another cup." He rises briskly, dusting invisible crumbs from his trousers, and disappears into the gloom. A tray of porcelain tea things sits at the end of the bed, as incongruous against the rough military blanket as Dick’s ridiculously skinny jeans and bedazzled canvas hi-tops.
"Rough week, huh?" the boy says brightly, taking a noisy slurp of Earl Grey. It’s an excellent act he puts on, this bold veneer of self-absorbed vitality, but Bruce sees the dark hollows under his vivid blue eyes, the rough-bitten lower lip. His first Robin has been worried; worried enough to come here, of all places. "How was Smallville?"
"Small," he says shortly, sinking down onto Alfred’s vacated seat. The old man is still conspicuously absent. Bruce suspects that an extra cup will not be forthcoming. "And Bludhaven?"
"Improving every day," Dick replies. He’s wrapped in about five layers of plaid and floral, his head shaved around the sides. The remaining hair is scraped into a messy bun. A manbun, Bruce thinks, appalled. His chest is mostly visible in spite of the abundance of fabric, dark ink and tawny skin. The stark curve of a bat’s wing. Bruce grabs a handful of shirts and pulls, mismatched buttons flying like confetti. The tea service rattles, but survives the disruption.
"What is this," Bruce grinds, not a question, his voice dipping into Batman’s modulated growl. Emblazoned across Dick’s left pectoral, still throbbing faintly with the heat of a healing wound, lies the symbol of the Bat in solid black.
"Right across my heart," Dick simpers, fluttering his eyelashes. His voice is hard under the sugar, jaw clenched harder. "What, you’ll mark your dastardly criminals but not your little buddy?"
"Goddammit, Dick," he begins, making to pull away, but the boy is quicker, clamping a hand over his and squeezing tight. He’s still holding his teacup. For some reason, that makes Bruce’s anger deflate. He sits back down, barely aware that he had risen to begin with, and loosens his grasp on Dick’s clothing. Dick’s hand is warm over his, kicked-up heartbeat slowing beneath Bruce’s palm.
"Bruce," he begins carefully, pausing to chew at his lip. "We both know I'm no Robin any more." Another pause, a near-imperceptible hitch of breath. "But since Jason - "
"Dick, this isn't - "
"Since Jason," he repeats firmly, over Bruce’s aborted protest, "you've been walking a path that can only end in tragedy. Has ended in tragedy already." Bruce turns his head, unable to bear Dick’s earnest expression. The grotesque monument of Jason’s costume gazes down on him instead, empty and defiled, pinned behind glass like a long-dead butterfly. "You refuse to hear Alfred’s concerns, you refuse to - " hitch " - well, we can’t be around each other these days - "
"Dick," Bruce says again, warning.
"Oh, don’t worry yourself," bitter, self-loathing. "I don’t want to talk about it." He takes a deep breath, sets his cup down, and finally releases Bruce’s hand. Bruce draws away with unwilling reluctance, busies himself putting the tray out of harm’s reach. The camp bed creaks as Dick shifts his weight; when Bruce dares to glance back at him, he is sitting cross-legged at the head of it, shirts haphazardly re-buttoned. Toeing off his shoes, Bruce sits on the bed facing him and mirrors his pose.
"What would you have me do?" he asks. It comes out plaintive where he’d meant it to be harsh. Dick brightens, leans forward and shoots him a sly daredevil grin.
"There’s a kid been hanging around Bludhaven," he says, delighted. "The smartest kid I've ever met, a real boy wonder."
"No," says Bruce.
"Bruce, he’s amazing. Figured us both out, stalked me for days before I caught on - "
"No," Bruce says again, louder, then blinks, processes what Dick had said. "He knows who we are?"
"Just think about it, Bruce," says Dick. He’s risen to his knees in his excitement, bracing himself on the tense muscles of Bruce’s thighs. "His name’s Tim Drake, he’d love to meet you - " Abruptly, he seems to become aware of his position, long lashes dipping low and cheeks warming. "Batman needs a Robin."
Bruce thinks about the slick, yielding heat of Dick’s mouth, the solid weight of his body as he sinks into Bruce’s lap. He thinks about the way the boy smells; juniper and burnt sugar notes of cologne, the salt of fresh sweat, a bite of astringent antiseptic over ink. He emphatically doesn't think about the possibility of Tim Drake, boy wonder in waiting.
A barely-there footfall forces them to separate; Alfred going about his business, out of sight but no longer out of earshot. Dick’s eyes are huge and black, his chest heaving, but he nods decisively, gets to his feet without complaint. Bruce makes a statue of himself, fists clenched, guilt and regret already warring with other, baser emotions.
"I’ll bring Timmy by in a few days," Dick says, voice carefully normal. "You and Alfred can meet him, see what you make of him. After that, you and me are gonna talk." He hesitates briefly at that, but sways forward to kiss Bruce again, some bitten-back sound vibrating in his throat. "Tell Alfie to cook up a storm, okay? Kid could use some more meat on his bones."
He’s gone by the time Bruce realises he didn't protest to any of it.