Chapter Text
As it turned out, there wasn’t a secret manual on how to be a parent. Especially a parent to a traumatized, selectively mute child who saw his parents fall from an incredible height before they hit the ground. There was no manual for that at all. Even Alfred, who had raised him after he’d witnessed his parents' murder, didn’t have much to share other than: “Be patient with him. That is the best and only thing you can do right now, Master Bruce.”
He was as patient as a thirty-year-old who had never been around children could be, so he gave Dick space. Space was good for people who went through trauma, right? He’d thought back to his childhood, after his parents died, but all he could remember was the feeling of numbness that had settled into his bones. The pitying looks the adults gave him when he went to school, or when anyone from Wayne Enterprises had stopped by the tower. It was those pitying looks that had made him feel angry. He didn’t want their pity; he wanted his parents. Surely Dick had similar feelings. He doubted he wanted pity or people crowding his space. So he had given him enough space to work through his emotions as he needed.
It wasn’t easy, and every day he felt more like a failure than anything. The boy was barely speaking, he cried every morning before school, and Bruce could hardly stomach the sad look on his face as he walked through the halls. He was failing as a parent, just like he was failing the city lately.
There was a lot on his plate between his life as Bruce Wayne, his relationship with Clark, being Batman, and now parenting an eight-year-old orphaned boy. He was barely treading the surface of the water, and if anything else happened, he was sure he’d drown.
With an aching body that begged for sleep, he dragged himself through the quiet halls. It had been another rough night in Gotham. His body was beaten and bruised from a robbery that turned into a high-speed chase and then two gang fights. It was like the violence in the city was never-ending. Something was always happening that needed his attention, and for the last three years, he’d devoted his life to this project. He broke his body time and time again, bleeding and bruising in the streets of Gotham, just to make some kind of meaningful change.
Though now things were different. He had to compartmentalize the two. He couldn’t be the Batman at home anymore, with Alfred assisting him with clues and cases over their morning coffee. Now, when he was in the manor, he was Bruce, and only when he was in the cave could he be the other part of him.
He was grateful for the darkness as he expertly navigated his way up to his room. The only sound in the empty halls was the even slaps of his bare feet against the cool marble, but it was nice to be the only one awake right now. He relished coming home after patrols to a silent house, which was still possible since Dick had a prompt bedtime of 8 PM every night, even on the weekends.
It had to be close to four, and he’d calculated that he could get two hours of sleep before he needed to be up again. Alfred got Dick ready for school, but the three of them always had breakfast together (“The boy needs a schedule, Sir.”). He wanted nothing more than to fall face-first into his bed and sleep until it was time for his next patrol, but that would never be an option anymore. His right hand drifted up to pinch at the bridge of his nose before he dug his thumb and index fingers against his closed eyes, rubbing until he saw flashes of light and color.
Streaks of moonlight lit up the upstairs hallway, bathing all of the statues and paintings in a silver light. For the first time in a long time, he wondered if the house was too…cold. Did Dick like it here? It had to be a huge adjustment for him, especially since Waynor Tower was not as fun and colorful as the circus. That much was obvious.
It only took him a few more minutes to make it to the wing of the house where he and Dick slept, Alfred’s room tucked away on the opposite end of the hall from theirs. Once he made it to his door, his hand hovered over the knob for a beat. He chewed on his lip and spared a glance at the door to his ward’s room. Should he check on him? No, Bruce, you’ll scare him to death walking in there looking like you do. The boy didn’t know about his nighttime activities or the fact that his new dad’s boyfriend was Superman. He figured it was best to keep everything very separate for now.
He decided against checking on him. Even if the decision chafed.
Pushing his way into his room, the first place he went was to the bathroom. The bright artificial lights pulled a hiss from his lips, and he was once again rubbing at his bloodshot eyes, only this time, he groaned. He needed to remind Alfred to order softer lights for his bathroom. It took a few seconds, but Bruce was able to adjust to the lights enough that he could wash his face and step into the shower.
The shower was a quick one, consisting of washing the sweat and grime off his body; his hair could wait until he woke up for the day. A sense of urgency overcame him as he toweled off and threw on whatever clothes he could get his hands on. His hands shook as he pulled the t-shirt over his head, and it was like every nerve in his body was vibrating the longer he took to get dressed. He needed to check on Dick. Now.
Maybe it was just the night he had, but something just felt wrong. He could feel it in his bones that something wasn’t right in the house. Clark always joked that his best friend was paranoia, but that constant sense of wrongness had saved him more times than he could count.
After smoothing his wet hair back from his face, he walked–very quickly–to his door and nearly yanked it off its hinges. Anxiety festered beneath his skin and settled in his chest like a weight he couldn’t dig out. As he walked down the hall to Dick’s room, he had to take a moment to calm himself down before he risked scaring the poor boy in the middle of the night.
It wasn’t until he reached the door that he finally took a deep inhale, attempting to calm the nerves that fluttered around like wasps in his chest and stomach. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, it was like he could feel Clark’s hands settling on his shoulders, the heels of his palms digging into the knots that always seemed to cling to his trapezius. All he had to do was whisper his name, and he’d be there in the blink of an eye. Clark would come in and save the day like he always did, but Bruce could do this. He could check on his young ward without the help of Superman and be the parent that Dick needed him to be.
The door gave a soft creak as he pushed it open, stepping in a beat later to glance around the room, only to see a very empty bed. The covers were thrown back like the boy had pushed them away to get up, but there was no sign of said boy in the bedroom. The connecting bathroom light was off, and just like that, Bruce’s heart rate sped up, and he was even more frantic than before. He rushed over to the bed and placed a hand on the spot that looked sleep-rumpled. Cold. He hasn’t been in bed in a while.
Panic seized him, and it felt similar to when he lost his parents. Wide eyes flittered around the room to assess for any signs of a break-in, but why would anyone want to take Dick? His hands went up to card through his hair, and he was about ten seconds away from a nervous breakdown.
Until he heard a sniffle.
His body tensed at the sound, but after a moment and another sniffle, Bruce recognized it as a child. It was like his body relaxed all at once with the realization that Dick wasn’t missing, but the anxiety quickly morphed into concern as he listened for another sniffle. Dick had to have known that he came in the room, given the door opening and his frantic footfalls, but if the boy was upset, then he wouldn’t want to come out. So Bruce listened.
It felt like an eternity passed before the third sniffle sounded, and his gaze flickered over to the wardrobe tucked away in the corner on the other side of the bedroom. He chewed on his lip while gathering the courage to move his feet, but he felt stuck. Did Dick even want him to comfort him? He thought back to the nights he’d spent crying, wishing for his parents to come in and tell him that he was just having a nightmare.
He walked to the wardrobe.
His hands fidgeted by his side as he crossed the distance between the doorway and the wardrobe, and he felt ridiculous as he lifted his hand to gently knock a knuckle against it, followed by a soft, “May I open the door?”
There was silence for a few seconds, followed by a distinct shuffling noise, and then there was a little knock on the door. That was his signal that he could open the door. He grabbed both of the handles of the wardrobe and pulled them open, his gaze dropping down to the little boy tucked into the corner beneath all of his suits. Dick looked smaller, pressed into the corner with his knees tucked up to his chest. His face was buried into his knees, and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs.
Bruce’s heart clenched in his chest at the sight, and he silently cursed himself for not coming to check on him sooner. Part of him feels like he’s interrupting a private moment, but then he has to quickly remind himself that Dick was only eight-years-old and lost his parents a couple of months ago. With a heavy sigh, Bruce kneeled so they were eye level, his knees popping all the way down.
At first, he doesn’t say anything. In his mind, his excuse is that he wants Dick to get used to his presence, but really, he isn’t sure what to say. Silence was a familiar thing for the two of them: Bruce, who preferred not to speak too much, and Dick, who didn’t speak at all–not yet at least.
The psychiatric pediatrician said that this behavior wasn’t uncommon in children who had experienced a great trauma. The doctor had suggested that it would be best to put him in sign language classes to give him an outlet to communicate, so Bruce did that the very next day for himself, Dick, and Alfred. A private tutor visited during weekdays after school and work to give lessons, and the trio had gotten relatively proficient in it. It was a step at least. Bruce wanted Dick to know that they cared about him, and he hoped that this communication showed that they cared.
It was too dark for him to sign anything, so instead, he slipped silently into the wardrobe next to him. He took his time getting comfortable against the hard wood, the little suit jackets and pants brushing along his damp hair, causing him to hunch over to fit a little better. Dick kept his eyes trained ahead, his bottom lip trembling from the obvious effort to keep himself from crying once again. Seeing him so upset had Bruce’s heart clenching in his chest, but he didn’t draw attention to it by reaching over to pat him on the shoulder. He still wasn’t sure how to comfort Dick when he was upset. Should he offer affection? Just sit silently with him?
The pair settled into a slightly tense silence, the only real sound between them being the occasional sniffle from Dick. He wasn’t sure what to do, seeing as he’d never been around young children before, but he knew he should be doing something.
“When I was around your age, just a couple of years older,” He started, his voice a little hoarse from lack of use over the night. “I used to hide under my bed every night. I had this recurring nightmare that the man who hurt my parents was going to come after me, too. I would always wake up and hide because I was so afraid that he was going to come and hurt me while Alfred slept.”
He wasn’t sure why he confided that information to Dick. He’d never told anyone that until now, but part of him hoped that it would build some type of bridge between them. They were both orphans. Left completely alone by both parents in tragic accidents that they had witnessed.
The sound of shifting broke the silence, and he glanced down at Dick, who had turned his wistful blue eyes onto Bruce. He sat blinking at him for a few seconds before lifting his hands to sign as best he could with the current knowledge he had. “Did he ever come?”
Bruce shook his head at the question, clearing his throat to try to rid some of the hoarseness from his voice. “No, he never came…Why are you in the wardrobe, Dick?”
A long pause followed the question, Dick’s brows furrowing as he looked at his hands. He was trying to find the words, and Bruce would wait however long he needed to. Sleep be damned. Dick’s small fingers curled and flexed around the words he was trying to string together, and Bruce caught a few of them. Scared, help, miss them.
Finally, after a couple of frustrated noises, Dick turned his body to face Bruce and signed, “Bad dream. Tried to help. I miss them.”
If Bruce could relate to anything, it was the feeling of missing one’s parents. Without thinking, he reached over to gently pull Dick closer, wrapping him up in a hug that he’d wished for so many times when he was eight. His arms snaked around the boy and pulled him close to his chest while his nose pressed into his hair, and he just sat there. No one had been there to hug him when he was mourning. The funeral had been full of pitying looks behind hands as they whispered, “How sad…He’s just a boy…”
And Alfred, for all of his great qualities, had never fully treated him like a son. Bruce had never blamed him for that. They were both thrown into a world they never thought would be possible. He’d taught him everything he needed to know and raised him, but there had always been a lack of emotional nourishment that made him into the man he was today. Dick didn’t deserve any of that. He deserved his family–his parents–but unfortunately, Bruce was all he had now. He was the last person who should have taken in the kid, but he couldn’t help but see himself in the sad blue eyes of the young boy who didn’t quite fit into his life.
Dick was tense for a moment, but it only lasted for a few seconds before he settled against his chest and seemed to melt into him. Bruce gently rubbed his back and offered a few soothing pats in an attempt to comfort him. Physical affection was hardly his forte, but there were always exceptions to every rule.
“I know you miss them…and I wish that there was some way that I could bring them back,” Bruce started, his voice growing soft. “But I promise that I will be here. We’ll figure this out together.”
There was no response from Dick besides a soft sigh, his little fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his t-shirt. His breathing had evened out, and Bruce knew that he’d fallen asleep. All he needed was the steady presence of someone to lull him to sleep, and Bruce couldn’t quite decipher the feelings that coursed through him at the thought of being the security that Dick needed to fall asleep. It was…in a word, surreal.
The work he did at night as the Batman was important. He was trying to do something meaningful for the people in the only way he knew how. Every night, he went out on the streets and bled for the city that had created him. The Batman was who he was meant to be, but as Dick slept against his chest, he couldn’t help but feel like Bruce Wayne was just as important. It was Bruce that Dick followed around the manor like a little duckling. It wasn’t Batman.
He glanced down at the sleeping boy, his dark curls a mess from what he assumed had been tossing and turning in his sleep. He carded a steady hand through them before he dropped the hand and decided it was time to get out of the wardrobe. The position wasn’t doing anything for the bruises he was developing. With a soft grunt, he pushed himself forward with one hand while his other arm stayed wrapped around Dick. He managed to get himself out of the wardrobe with the added weight of an eight-year-old boy, which he felt was the most impressive thing he’d accomplished that night.
Walking towards the bed, he shifted Dick in his arms as gently as possible so he could lay him back down, but the moment he put the boy on the mattress, his fingers only curled tighter into his shirt. Bruce blinked a couple of times at the reaction, and he was about to gently pull the hand away until, as quiet as a whisper, Dick mumbled, “Stay.” The word was spoken so quietly that Bruce thought he had imagined it, but it was real, even if Dick was still halfway asleep.
For a moment, Bruce was rooted in his spot. That was the first word Dick had spoken to him since he’d arrived. He didn’t even care that it was said while he was dozing off to sleep. He spoke.
Bruce, without a word, slipped into the bed and pulled Dick close to him again before dragging the covers up. He was thankful that Alfred had suggested getting the same type of mattress that was on his bed because it eased his aching body as he relaxed into the sheets. His eyes slowly slid shut, and as he started to fall asleep, he knew with certainty that he could do this. He could be Bruce Wayne for Dick.