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„Clark,“ Bruce says, and his voice sounds actually worried over the phone—tense, as if he’s trying hard to keep his stern face in order even though Clark can’t even see it through the speaker. “Dick is gone.”
For a moment Clark holds his breath, because with Bruce that line can mean anything. Even for Clark, who can hear a great deal more than other people can--intonations and tremors in the voice, words that are just slightly quieter because they are hard to force out--it is not always easy to detect what Bruce means when he’s trying so carefully to keep his voice level. “Gone” could mean…gone.
“What do you mean?”
“I think he’s run away. The things he brought with him from the circus are missing from his room.”
So you finally did it, Clark wants to comment. You finally drove that poor kid away. But what he says is, “I’m on my way.”
Because if Bruce, who can find anyone anywhere when he puts his mind to it, rings up Clark and asks him for help—well, not in so many words but still—then he must be really, really worried. And when Bruce is worried, he rushes into stupid things and leaps without looking. Also, Clark isn’t sure he has ever seen him really worried yet.
***
Sometime, at around two in the morning, it started to rain and it hasn’t stopped yet. The winds are blowing briskly across the soaked lawn, whipping the rain against the grave stones rising up against the sky. Somewhere an owl is hooting. In the distance, in Gotham below, a police siren echoes up from the skyscraper gorges and then, a gun is fired. And another.
Dick pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Normally he isn’t like this; he’s used to guns fired just next to his ears and knives being thrown at him, he can take a punch and fall from a roof and still know that somehow things will be fine. But he’s been sitting here in the dark for hours, and the cold is creeping through his clothes and sneaking into his bones; his joints are progressively getting stiffer and about half an hour ago, his teeth started clattering. Dick tightens the grip around his legs and presses his back against the wall behind him. The trees growing on the other side of the wall offer some shelter from the rain, but it’s not much and really. It wouldn’t be so bad if Dick didn’t feel so utterly alone. Abandoned. Orphaned.
He sighs and hides his head behind his arms, letting his forehead rest on his knees. The rain pours on his head but he barely notices it anymore. His thoughts wander back to earlier that day even though he really doesn’t want them to. There’d been a fight with Bruce. A big argument and the stern look and a whole lecture on responsibility and how Dick had failed about every one of Bruce’s one-hundred and seventy-nine expectations, and how Bruce was very disappointed in him. How Dick would eventually get them all killed, how it might have been a mistake to take a partner. Bruce hadn’t given him any chance to respond, simply stormed out of the cave, broody and limping (which was Dick’s fault), and it had felt like the temperature in the cave had dropped about ten degrees just then.
So Dick had left. He gathered his things and ran off into the night, the rain, not knowing where to go. He just knew that he was no longer welcome at Wayne Manor.
And that’s when he starts crying, tears blending with the rain, sobs getting caught in his throat. No, he has never felt this alone.
More shots from down below. A hollow scream, then laughter. Too many people dying every night.
Twigs creak. Steps. Dick looks up, tensing. Instinctively, he reaches for his duffle bag, pulling it closer. In the dark, a tall figure is approaching. A shadow. Dick narrows his eyes, but in the rain it is hard to get a good look. Rain keeps dripping from the hair that is now flat against his forehead. His heartbeat picks up and he finds himself wishing that Batman was here. He puts his feet firmly on the muddy ground, ready to bolt.
Then he hears a familiar voice. “Dick?”
“Clark?”, Dick replies only he’s actually sort of stuttering the name since his teeth are clattering and he’s both incredibly cold and tired.
Clark doesn’t reply. He crouches next to him, peels out of his jacket and wordlessly drapes it around Dick’s shoulders. It’s still warm, and though Clark has been out in the rain too it’s not as completely drenched as everything that Dick is wearing, which is nice. It occurs to him then that Clark is…well, Clark. Not wearing his Superman suit.
“What are you—doing here?” Dick blinks. Maybe he’s starting to fantasise. Somewhere, his brain is still trying to compute the fact that Superman in his secret identity is nonchalantly offering him a jacket as if they’re real friends. As if they’re equals, sort of. Like Clark isn’t the world’s greatest super hero.
“Bruce called,” Clark says with a smile, before easing down on the ground beside him. “He said you’d run away.”
“Oh,” Dick nods. “Yes. I guess I have.”
“Do you mind me asking why you did that?”
Dick sighs. He pushes a strand of wet hair out of his eyes and sighs again. “Bruce…I think Bruce would be better off without me. He doesn’t really want me around.”
He expects Clark to say something, but the man remains silent, offering Dick the chance to elaborate. He is, Dick thinks, so different from Bruce. There’s always a friendly smile on his face. Kind words for everyone.
“It’s just….I almost got us killed last night and we had a fight, and Bruce said that maybe he didn’t want a partner and….” Dick shrugs. “I get it. So I thought I’d get out of Bruce’s way.”
Clark furrows his brows. “Bruce has a temper. You know that, don’t you?” he asks gently.
“I know, I know. But. If he doesn’t want a Robin, then I have no right to be there, do I? I’m a disappointment, Clark. He hates me.”
Suddenly, Clark’s face goes dark. “Don’t say that, Dick.”
“It’s true.” He sounds sullen now, like the fifteen-year old teenager he is, but Clark doesn’t call him out on it. He never does.
“Dick,” Clark says slowly, as if he’s choosing his words carefully, “Do you know why Bruce was so upset? Why he lashed out on you?” He waits for Dick’s nod to assure himself he’s got his attention. “He was worried about you. Because you scared him. Because you came close to dying last time, and the thought of losing you terrifies him, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that.”
“I’ll tell you something about Bruce, Dick. As far as I understand it, his father was absent a lot even before he was murdered. Bruce never had a father and he doesn’t know how to be one. But he tries Dick. He really does.”
“He…he doesn’t even like me, Clark,” Dick protests helplessly. Because when he’s honest it all comes down to that. Bruce Wayne isn’t a bad man; he would never hurt him. He would always make sure that Dick has everything he needs and he feels awful for complaining because every other kid at the orphanage would have switched places with him in a heartbeat. But Bruce doesn’t like him and somehow, that is all that matters to Dick.
“He does. I can hear it in his words every time he mentions you. Something in his voice shifts. It becomes gentler, kinder. No, he isn’t good at saying it but his voice cannot lie to me. He loves you. He cares about you. And even if he did want you to stop being Robin…he would never want Dick Grayson to leave. It was Dick Grayson that he adopted, not Robin.”
Dick doesn’t know how to respond to that. He realises that he’s hungry when his stomach makes a loud, awkward growl. He hasn’t eaten anything since the morning. Behind him, wings flutter. An owl perhaps, or maybe a crow.
“He actually called you?” Dick asks to take off his mind of the hunger.
Clark nods. “I’ve never heard him sound so worried.”
“Huh.”
“Dick, you’re soaking wet. You’ve been out in the cold too long. Will you come home?”
And that’s the other thing about Clark. He gives people choices. And Dick is fairly sure that if he says no now, Clark will accept that. He’ll stay and reason with him of course, but he won’t make him go.
“I don’t think Bruce wants me to.”
“Nonsense. Of course he does. He called me to try and help finding you.”
Dick doesn’t answer. It’s funny how he finds it so easy to talk to Clark, who isn’t even human and more powerful than any creature on this green earth. Then again, Clark is someone you can actually have a conversation with. Bruce is…well, Bruce. Sometimes he is so gruff that Dick is very close to start calling him “Sir” and “Mr Wayne” again. It’s been three years since he moved in, and he still hasn’t learned to read the man, apparently.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Clark suddenly offers. “Give Bruce another chance. He really cares about you. I know he is difficult, but he is a good man. Go back to Wayne Manor and when things get too bad, or when you need someone to talk to, you come to me. And when things get so bad you think you can’t take it anymore, you come to me as well. Not to this graveyard, not to some back alley, okay? You can stay with me for a while and I promise I won’t ask questions.”
Dick exhales. His breath soars up in the air like white smoke. Another gunshot somewhere in the distance. Batman is probably out stopping whoever fired it right now.
He doesn’t like Wayne Manor much. It could be a beautiful place if it felt less abandoned, but it’s too big, too grim, too lonely. It couldn’t be more different from his life at the circus, where space was rare and everything you owned had to earn its place or it would be thrown away, to make room for something more useful.
“Please, Dick.”
Dick glances up. Clark is studying him, his blue eyes so intense that Dick has to look away. And then he grins as it occurs to him that he used to think his life at the circus was quite unconventional, and now he’s living with Batman, hunting criminals as Robin, and Superman is giving him a pep talk.
It’s cold. It’s cold and windy and wet and Dick wants to go home.
“All right.”
He knows Clark is smiling as he puts a hand on Dick’s shoulder and squeezes lightly. How does he know when to stop? Dick thinks. Clark could crush his shoulder with a snap of his fingers. How bad must it be to be holding back every day just to pass as normal?
“I’ll call Bruce,” Clark says. “Thank you, Dick.”
“I might take you up on that offer, though.”
“Anytime.”
***
Bruce is pacing in his study. Clark can see him through the solid brick walls, and he can even hear Bruce’s erratic heartbeat; he’s still worried. Nervous at the very least. And then there’s another too-fast heartbeat—Dick’s. The boy is just as nervous as Bruce is and Clark can’t hold it against him. Bruce can be frightening and he half wonders whether this isn’t a mistake. Clark wasn’t lying, Bruce is a good man. But maybe not a good enough one to raise a boy.
Beside him, Dick comes to a sudden halt. He presses the duffle bag against his chest; his lips form a thin line. He can face the Joker and Two-face and the Riddler without so much as batting an eyelash, but facing Bruce Wayne—that’s a whole different story.
“It’s going to be fine,” Clark says, and he hopes that it will be.
Alfred opens the door, says something about how very good it is to see Dick returning and that he’ll have a hot chocolate ready in about five minutes and oh, Master Wayne is in his study. Of course he hasn’t come out to the hall to greet them. Clark had expected nothing less.
Alfred takes Dick’s bag and gives him a little push forward when Clark begins to head for the door to the study. Before he can knock, Bruce voice comes from inside the room, “Come in.”
The door opens with a creak and Clark wonders if that is for dramatic effect, because somehow he cannot picture Bruce having missed the annoying sound every time the door opens, or if Bruce just hasn’t bothered to have it fixed.
Dick follows a step behind. He’s usually a good-spirited boy, always chatting, but today the rain seems to have washed all his bravado away. His shoulders pulled up and his feet barely lifting from the ground, he’s the spitting image of misery personified. His hair is still wet and so are his clothes, and the exhaustion and cold have paled his face and shadowed his eyes.
Bruce turns away from the large windows, and though there is no motion in his face, Clark hears his heart beating stronger when he spots them coming in. Dick remains half hidden behind Clark’s back, presumably too tired to face his foster parent.
Bruce takes a step towards them and then another one, and he seems unsure as to what to say. Clark can just picture how he must have gone through various versions of What To Say To Dick When He Gets Home and now finds them all wanting or too hard to actually say. So instead he crosses his arms before his chest and asks, “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
He keeps his voice casual but Clark can hear the worry seeping through, the slight tremor.
Dick nods. “I’m—I’m okay.”
Bruce’s heartbeat slows down. His posture relaxes somewhat.
And then there’s the awkward moment where something should be happening but it doesn’t; the moment where Bruce should tell Dick that he’s glad he’s fine, and back home, he should give him a hug or even ground him and tell him to never leave like that again. But being Bruce, he does none of these things and so Clark wraps his arm around Dick’s shoulder and he can feel the boy shivering from the cold, and he thinks that maybe he really shouldn’t have brought Dick back. He’s a good kid. A gentle boy. Who knows what Bruce will turn him into.
And then, just as Clark is about to tell Dick that maybe he should stay with him for a while, Bruce says, “I’m glad you’re home.”
Dick tenses. He looks up, and his lips twitch to a smile.
“I think Alfred may have your hot chocolate ready. You should probably take a good long shower, too. You must be freezing.”
“Can—can I have, maybe, a sandwich, too? I’m starved.”
Bruce smiles at that. Actually smiles. “Of course. I wouldn’t be surprised if Alfred had already taken care of it.”
Dick’s smile widens. He leaps forward and wraps his arms around Bruce’s waist. Surprised by the sudden outburst of affection, Bruce stiffens and shoots Clark a helpless glance. He has a confused look on his face that Clark has never seen before, because the Batman isn’t afraid of anything except the idea that someone might actually care about him.
Clarks cocks his head, giving Bruce a small nod. And for once, Bruce understands and listens.
He puts his hands on Dick’s shoulders and squeezes ever so lightly. It’s not much. But it’s enough. For now, it’s enough.
-The End-