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Bruce has never had a kid before. Obviously.
And between the specific circumstances he acquired Dick through, the truth of his secret identity coming out, and the antisocial behaviors Bruce has never quite been able to shake, he’ll take any sort of father-son bonding Dick allows of him.
So when Dick first tentatively narrows his eyes and says, “I bet I can make it back to the manor before you,” Bruce tucks that knowledge into his hat.
The first time Bruce didn’t try. Why would he? He enjoyed seeing his ward — his son already, if he was allowed to say that — laughing at him, running, a sparkle of mischief in his eye that he’d never really had before. But when Dick turned around to gloat, breathing heavily from his sprint up the manor lawns, and noticed Bruce was barely out of breathe? The light left his eyes, he slumped down, and it took a very confusing conversation with Alfred for Bruce to understand what went wrong.
He likes challenge. He likes competition. He hates being looked down upon or seen as someone who needs coddling.
Dick likes making bets.
It’s a great motivator. “Practice this punch 100 more times,” turns into, “I bet you can’t punch 100 times like that in under two minutes, without losing your form.” Training increases in both attentiveness and efficiency as Bruce learns how to challenge with his eyebrows, a simple flick meaning, “you think you can do it? Show me.”
Dick makes his own challenges back at Bruce, “I bet you can’t stack those cups while we spar,” “I bet you the dishes that I can do a deeper splits than you,” “I bet you can’t beat me in Mario kart.”
There’s occasionally a prize, occasionally something to strive for, but more often than not it’s just a bet for the sake of accomplishment, for the feeling of winning and competing. Bruce learns that the best way to get Dick to do his homework is to make it a challenge, “you think 90% correct in 10 minutes is possible? I don’t think so.” / “I’ll show you! I get to choose dinner on Saturday if I win.” / “I just don’t think it’s possible, but if you think you’ll win…”
At some point — and Bruce has to realize with a sudden shot to the heart that his son is no longer 9, he’s 13 now — he starts understanding the art of a long-term bet. Dick grows out of his momentary wagers (not completely, never completely) and he starts to bet on things that will take multiple days, a week, even a month to come to fruition.
“I bet you that you’ll only find 3 of the ducks I’ve hidden around the house in the next week, no more.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “How many have you hidden?”
“Five.”
“Deal.”
He found four. He still has absolutely no idea where that last one is, but he’s sure if Alfred has decided to leave it where it is, that it’ll turn up randomly in 5 years or so.
“I bet you’ll have four headlines in the Gazette before the end of the month.”
He had three about Wayne Enterprises, two about Brucie Wayne, and two about Batman.
“I got it! You had four headlines this month!”
“The terms were unclear. The name Wayne had more than four occurrences, seven about me in general, four about me directly, but only two about Bruce Wayne by name.”
“It counts.”
Dick is always happy to twist the rules in his favor.
And Bruce is happy to let him.
Dick makes longer term bets, on occasion, and Bruce is filled with such emotion — pride, Alfred called it — that all he wants to do is squeeze Dick to his chest until they both collapse from a lack of oxygen. He loves that boy with his whole heart, and the proof of his growth, the proof of him growing into the man (not man; he’ll always be his little boy) he knows he’ll become, it’s astounding. It truly is.
They’re working on his detective skills. Dick is an extremely talented gymnast and he picked up fighting like it was second nature, he’s curious enough to learn well and he’s incredibly creative too, but his analytical skills have always fallen just a touch behind what Bruce is trying to train into him.
This, too, becomes a challenge.
“I bet you can’t figure out why Mrs. Histleton leaves every gala at exactly 10:15?”
It takes a few days, but Dick gets back to him. “She’s trying to get home to feed her cats?”
Bruce smiles.
“I bet you can’t figure out my favorite coffee order.”
A day later, “strong, milk and sugar?”
“Be more specific.”
Another day, “steeped for 2 minutes, two dashes of milk, about a teaspoon and a half of sugar.”
“Still missing something.”
He looks dejected, but nods determinedly. Three days pass and Dick appears excited behind him in the morning, “You don’t like coffee!”
Bruce smirks, just enough of a twitch for his ward to know he’s won. “Really? What’s my preference then?”
“You always act the happiest when you have that weird stuff in the green tin.”
“Okay, and what is it?”
Dick shrugs, “not part of the original bet, B. Iiiiii won.”
“Yes you did Dick, yes you did.”
Later, Bruce cranks out 50 squats with Dick sitting on his shoulders, for a bet. Dick looks contemplative.
“What’s on your mind, chum?”
“I was just thinking…” he sticks out his tongue from the corner of his mouth. “Would you tell me if you were dating someone?”
Bruce cocks his head. “‘Course, chum. Why?”
“Well, it’s just, I feel like you might not. But you know I’m old enough, right? You can tell me about that stuff, I won’t be like, weirded out, or anything.”
“I know that,” and he does. He’s been less secretive about his playboy past recently, understanding that it’s important to be honest with his son about things like this. And he knows all it takes is one scandalous look at a gala and all the newspapers would be covered with speculation that he’d rather his son be prepared for. He’s secretly quite sure that if he were to ever get romantic feelings toward anyone, his son would be more likely to know about it than the other person.
“Hmm…” Dick says, and leaves the topic for now.
The league comes over for a party about a week later — it’s nothing much, just a get together, a couple of drinks, a couple of specially formulated drinks for flash and Superman, and a knowledge that the masks are not as necessary as usual while in Bruce’s domain. Bruce doesn’t necessarily approve of the world being without it’s protectors for the multiple hours that the party and after-party and hangovers take from them all, especially with them all being out at the same time, but he’s always been something of a realist. If he didn’t offer his place, it having both high tech security measures and being quite possibly the only place on earth that could withstand a drunk Superman, then they would be partying without his supervision, in a less secure place, and those risks are simply higher than the resignation he feels when giving up his place for a day.
Plus, okay, he wouldn’t really choose being a playboy party animal billionaire if he absolutely hated partying. He’s not that much of a masochist.
Maybe a bit.
But not that much!
Dick hangs around them for the first while, as the heroes start to settle into the space — a lounge room, numerous sofas, a card table, an intimate room that feels all the smaller with so many heavily muscled supers in it. Bruce takes much joy in seeing Dick run circles around Arthur, climbing over him and avoiding his teasing grabs. Diana chuckles and jeers while watching them and Clark pulls out quips from Dick even as he ducks and dodges.
Dick is the pride and joy of his life; he loves seeing him be the brightest star in the room, bring out smiles among those that have seen too much, as someone who has seen too much himself.
“How can a spooky guy like you raise a boy like that?”
“I ask myself that every day.” Bruce turns his head to give a small smile — a private smile — to Hal, who teases him with a private smile of his own.
“It’s just good, you know?”
“Hmm.” Dick is now hiding behind the chair Diana sits in, throwing words over her shoulder as Arthur tries to convince Clark to help him catch the “little scoundrel”.
“How you look at him. That’s what’s good.”
Bruce’s mouth curls even higher and he lifts his drink to his mouth to hide it.
“You’ve got more love in you than you’d like to admit, huh?”
Hal is leaning his shoulder against the bookshelf that Bruce’s back is to; he’s not even looking at the shenanigans in front of them. He’s looking at Bruce.
And now Bruce is looking back at him. He’s tracing the lines of his forehead — softened now, at peace — and the crinkles at the edges of his eyes. Hal’s smile is close lipped and utterly fond, none of that shining toothy grin that he gives in the face of a battle. His nose is distinct, his jawline defined, his skin a sun-kissed amber that almost glows next to his dark-ish green button down.
Bruce’s heart is hammering and he can’t bring himself to pay attention to it; he’s just here, in the moment, safe around his friends and his son and in his home, talking with Hal. His own smile grows ever fonder, and his cup comes up to his face again, though he doesn’t sip this time.
“Hmm,” he says, some mixture of affirmation and contentment.
Hal’s smile opens, a hint of teeth showing and they both look away, looking back towards the others — towards their friends, because that’s what Dick calls them, even if he’s never been sure about his standing with them — where Dick now is whispering conspiratorially with Clark as he nods along, a mock-solemn look on his face. Diana and Arthur and Barry and Ollie also talk softly, fond smiles and low chuckles pass between everyone.
It’s nice, he supposes. It’s safe enough, to be open and carefree with other people that know the struggle of opening up with a secret identity to keep safe. It’s nice to allow his son to run around with people that he is confident (to a point — he’s motherfucking Batman, there’s no day off of the paranoia) will do no harm. It’s good to know that these people are good, and that they choose to include him in their lives and in their secrets and in their times of peace.
It reminds him what the whole mission is about. It’s about times like this, where he can laze around with good company and let the village take over for just a moment.
He smiles.
***
He and Dick race to eat all their broccoli before the other (Dick had been rebelling against his vegetables recently; Bruce wins, but only by 3 seconds. It’s a close battle). Dick despairs against his loss but quickly remembers the rest of the meal that he still has left, so he busies himself.
Bruce watches, as he often does when he’s struck by the knowledge that this little boy — not as little as he was 4 years ago at 9, though don’t try to tell Bruce that — is truly the most wonderful person he’s ever had the chance to meet. He’s been through so much, but he’d be hard pressed not to call himself the luckiest person in Gotham for getting to raise his son.
“Bruce?”
“Yes?”
Dick chews his salmon before continuing, “do you want to date anyone?”
“This again?”
Dick just nods once and stuffs another forkful of salmon in his mouth.
Bruce is unsure of what’s bringing this up; is he scared Bruce is going to give him less attention? Is he hoping for some romantic story, does he need to watch a romcom with him to satisfy that desire? Is he concerned for Bruce? “Not that I can think of. Why?”
He shrugs. “I’m not holding you back, right? I can handle it if you want to date someone, I know you won’t like, forget about me or anything.”
“Well, if I ever want to date someone I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Why aren’t you though?”
Why isn’t he dating anyone? Because why would he? Because it would be complicated to date as Bruce Wayne without revealing his identity? Because it would be infinitely more complicated to date as Batman, and really, that might contradict his whole schtick. His whole ‘I am the night, I am vengeance, I am terror’ wouldn’t really have the same feeling if Batman was also dating the boy down the road.
Ultimately, he answers, “I couldn’t keep my identity safe from you for more than a few months. Trying to date would make it entirely more complicated.”
Dicks blank stare is completely confounding.
Bruce decides to ignore it, deciding to wonder about his son’s odd line of questioning later and then promptly forgetting.
***
Somehow — completely against all of Bruce’s wishes and better ideas — the league finds itself in a seedy bowling alley in Chicago. Chicago because there are no major heroes nor villains that base themselves out of here, and no one on the league lives here, which makes it the best city to keep from getting recognized in. It’s not nearly secure enough, not nearly safe enough, and he spent hours and hours on research for all the workers, recurring patrons, and every business within a three mile radius.
He’s wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, and he didn’t shave his scruff before coming. Dick is in a similar disguise, though he’s been kept out of the limelight as much as possible, so he looks more like any other boy than anything else.
The league seems to be enjoying themselves though, so as much as Bruce silently laments to himself about the choice of activity and public location, he’s careful to keep his thoughts to himself. The rest of the league is allowed to have fun — his kid is allowed to have fun — without his grumbling.
It’s not without reason! He just also understands that his idea of a “safe activity” is completely outlandish for regular people (or, not regular, but anyone is considered normal when compared to his level of paranoia), and if he wants to be included then he has to give some allowances (and he does want to be included, an idea that Dick and Alfred both had to ease him into gently).
He’s in a corner seat, the best view of the whole place, and even he can tell that he’s tightly wound up. He hasn’t moved for at least 10 minutes, just watching as Clark and Dick play in the arcade (Clark has always had a hard time controlling his strength to the minute details that the arcade basketball machines require, so Dick, having been trained by The Batman, is absolutely wiping the floor with him) and the rest of the league rotates through their bowling game.
It’s not as if he didn’t know that he was sliding into the seat directly next to Bruce, but he’s one of his safe people, he supposes Alfred would call him, and so he doesn’t note it as particularly important until the elbow is in his ribs and his shoulder is being nudged with his.
“C’mon spooks, I love your paranoid glaring just as much as the next guy, but you gotta give it a bit of a chance.”
He keeps his eyes ahead — jumping between the family that he hadn’t accounted for, the regulars that take up 2 lanes on the other side of the room, and the counter where Dick just ordered loaded cheese fries — but he allows his mouth to curve into the smallest of frowns. “I’m here,” he says, as if him simply showing up is giving it the type of chance Hal is talking about.
“And I’m personally so proud of you for that,” Hal touches his hand to his chest, as if his genuine eyes, downturned head, and pouting lips were enough to hide the sarcasm behind his words. “C’mon, don’t you wanna play a game with us? If bowling’s not your gig there’s the arcade,” he nods towards Dick and Clark, now playing air hockey. Dick shoots his hands up in the air in celebration and Clark presses his head to the table, probably groaning about kids these days and how he didn’t have an air hockey table within a 2 hour drive back when he was growing up.
“Watching is fine.”
Hal rolls his eyes and slings an arm around Bruce — he’s one of the only people allowed to do so, mostly for the fact that he wouldn’t stop even if he wasn’t allowed to — then says, “And you can do that still, while also playing! Play with me, spooks, I bet your nighttime skills barely even transfer; you’ll never beat me, 3 time high school foosball champion!”
It’s like he said the magic words, I bet, and Bruce finds himself turning his head towards Hal, looking him up and down to gauge his actual foosball skills. With his arm around him and both their heads now turned to each other, he suddenly finds their faces much closer to each other than he’d expected. Hal’s eyes widen, obviously surprised that Bruce might actually consider humoring him, and Bruce can see the green flecks within his hazel eyes, see the difference between the dark greens that he was likely born with and the brighter spots that likely came about due to prolonged exposure to the Lantern force. Bruce can see the way Hal’s eyebrows lift and then soften as his own eyes scan over Bruce. He can see how Hal smirks in his little pre-smirk way, then squeezes Bruce’s shoulders.
“Is that a yes to the foosball?”
Bruce narrows his eyes and traces the curve of Hal’s mouth as he speaks. Finally, he tilts his head and meets Hal’s eyes, before saying, “you’re on, flyboy.”
The spark in Hal’s eye is so bright that Bruce catches himself trying to lean in to properly see it, but then Hal has popped up and is holding out a hand for him and he’s grabbing it and heading to the foosball table with only barely a final glance around. Most of the league is just starting another round of bowling, everyone nursing beers and an endless stream of nachos being eaten as soon as they show up. Clark is flutting around, taunting his (single puck) victory probably more than a grown man should when playing against a child, but Dick isn’t even looking at the game anymore, instead his slack jaw and wide eyes look directly at Bruce and Hal as they enter the arcade area. Idly, Bruce realizes their hands were touching for perhaps longer than strictly necessary, but his mind brushes it off as a simple gesture with no extra meaning over what it is.
Dick, closing his mouth but still looking incredulous, focuses his sights on Hal and grills him, “what did you say to get him to play! He almost never does this sort of unimportant game!”
Hal grins as Bruce huffs, affronted — he’d do literally anything Dick wanted, within reason. Has that not been obvious enough? Still, he chooses to answer, “he bet he would win.”
Dicks eyebrows raise impossibly more, his eyes now flicking between the two of them. Under his breath he mutters, “you bet him…? But, you, huh?”
Hal shrugs, “I used to play this a lot, and spinning a couple of rods isn’t anything like a flying projectile or a murder mystery. I figure I might have a real chance here.”
His son nods slowly, “right.” Dick turns back to the air hockey table where Clark is all set up and ready to play again.
Bruce shrugs at his son’s weird behavior and notes Hal’s fond look he’s directing toward the boy. Clark and Dick silently communicate about something and then switch sides, giving Dick a clearer view of their game of foosball. Bruce knows that’s why they switch sides, and a combination of Dick wanting to watch him and Hal’s obvious fondness towards his son gives his stomach a little flip; a warmth that he’s felt more in the last 4 years than ever before permeates through him.
He takes his place at the table, palming the heavy ball. Hal steps into place too, immediately turning all 4 of his rods as fast as he can, testing the weight and the spin-ability of the football (or soccer, but football sounds closer to foosball) characters.
Hal’s stance is open, on edge, one hand on defense and one hand on offense. He looks intently at the table, ready for Bruce to drop the ball, and Bruce lets himself look for just a moment — look at the way his eyebrows furrow in preparation, at the way his shoulder muscles are just visible beneath his shirt, at how his lips curl up when he catches Bruce looking — before dropping the ball into the middle and they start playing.
Bruce wins the first goal, Hal the second, and the third is nearly an even match for 10s of seconds. Hal makes a quip about Bruce’s calculated strike method and Bruce returns a scathing review of Hal’s ‘spin as fast as possible’ method.
Hal’s grin distracts Bruce long enough for the ball to go into his goal.
“Come on Brucie-pie, can’t be letting the cross talk distract you.”
He can’t find it within himself to be upset — it’s just a game, after all — when Hal continues to catch him off guard through the rest of the game. When Hal calls him ‘babe’ and Bruce physically loses hold of the handles, when he forces himself to take a deep breath after Hal looks him up and down in the middle of a match, when his heart is hammering with the incessant want to prove himself to Hal (though he has nothing to prove, not really, not here), when he feels his own smile growing and that itself puts a smile on Hal too, it’s all good reasons to lose a goal to Hal. And if Bruce finds himself paying more attention to the mischievous looks that Hal gives him then the rest of the game, and especially than the rest of the bowling alley, then that’s his own business.
Hal wins. Impossibly.
Bruce is now feeling lighter than he’s been in hours, if not days, if not ever, and he can feel — can physically feel — himself holding onto every word, every look, every action that Hal takes. He’s exhilarated at the competition, at the attention, at how he was able to turn off such a large portion of his brain and focus it only on the man in front of him, trusting that the others would be able to deal with any bigger issues should they come up. Hal suggests they try skeeball, and Bruce is perhaps better at this one, or perhaps he’s able to shoot at times when he’s not utterly captivated by the sound of Hal’s laughter, laughing at his own unlucky shooting or at his own jokes or at Bruce (and he loves it perhaps the most when he laughs because of him) and Bruce’s dry pan jokes.
Hal, for all that Bruce used to say that he relies too much on the ring, is impressively apt at these sort of skill based carnival games, and ends up just barely losing at skee ball. It’s close enough to keep the competitive spirit between them up until the end, and when Bruce hits his final shot, he’s taken aback by his gut reaction urge to celebrate. He’s Batman, he doesn’t fist pump or smile brightly or taut his victory.
But then Hal punches him lightly in the shoulder and gives him the brightest grin he’s had all night, directly to him, no one else, and Bruce let’s himself take the congratulations and the closeness that Hal keeps between them, and he even offers his own smile back, and it’s okay that he likes this. He’s Batman, sure, but he’s also Bruce, and he’s allowed to have fun like this, he’s allowed to have friends.
Dick sits in the passenger seat on their way home, oddly quiet, though Bruce chalks it up to the exhaustion of a long day. The silence is nice after so much socializing, and Bruce knows that he’ll need at least 2 days of minimal interactions to recover.
Still, it’s not like Dick to fall quiet, even after the last multiple hours, so Bruce cocks his head in an offer to talk about whatever is on his mind.
“How would you know if you like someone?”
“Hm,” Bruce wonders what brings this up. Maybe there’s someone at school? He’s only 13, he shouldn’t really be thinking about this sort of stuff, but then again, Bruce didn’t have the most normal representation of friendships and relationships in middle and high school. Best to be broad, give him the most support and information possible. “You might find yourself wanting to be in their presence more often than your other friends, or you’ll want to do more than what you do with friends, like holding hands. Some people like to kiss, some people like-“
“No no no, not in general. Like, you, how do you specifically like people?”
“Ah,” he flounders. Him? He doesn’t really do things normal, he’s really not a good representation of relationships. His life was largely bracketed by trauma and Batman, his knowledge of his personal relationship markers is practically nonexistent. “I…”
“Are you aromantic?”
“Aro… huh?”
“Aromantic. We had an assembly at school about, like, gay stuff, and it was on the pamphlet. It’s like,” Dick moves his hands as he talks, “not wanting to have romantic relationships with anyone, ever, or like, sometimes, or whatever. Do you like romance? For yourself?”
“Um, yes, I think, I think I’d want romance. Maybe.” Insanely, Hal’s face pops into his head, but he pushes it away as he does anytime Hal’s face pops unwarranted into his head. Maybe if he wasn’t driving he’d have to consider that reaction, but, thankfully, his eyes are on the road and the signs and the drivers around him.
“Great. What kind of dates do you think you’d like?”
“I guess, off the top of my head, uhhhh… Do they know about me?”
Dick snorts, obviously rolling his eyes. “It’s your dream person on your dream date. Do you want them to know that you go out at night to save Gotham? Then they do. Easy as that.”
Bruce mouths, “easy as…” and snorts himself. If only it were that easy. “Yes, then, they do. We’d, ah, have a picnic.”
“A picnic!?? That’s your dream date, right now, anything you could want, and it’s a picnic?”
He shrugs, feeling oddly defensive of his random choice now that it’s been attacked. “What’s wrong with a picnic? Food, privacy, everything a date could need.”
Dick’s scoff sounds awfully fond for a sound of derision. “You spend too much time around criminals, B. Fine, then, a picnic. With who? Describe them.”
Again, the annoying image of Hal, just an hour ago, laughing at something Bruce said monotonously, pops into his head and he has to force himself back into the present. “They’re, uh, nice? And, well, kind?”
“Those are the same thing, B.”
“No, there’s a difference, it’s, ah. Okay fine, well, they should be… funny.”
“Mmhm. Go on.”
“And… Dick, I really don’t know why you’re so interested in my dating life recently. What’s going on chum?”
He sighs and uncrosses his arms, instead fiddling with his thumbs in his lap. “I’m gathering data, like you taught me.”
Of course — part of his recent training on crime solving had been on the extraction of data, especially from subjects who don’t know that they know what you’re looking for. Okay, that’s fine, good even. If he’s training and he’s interested, then that’s a good thing. Yes.
Too bad it has to be Bruce that’s the subject for his more personal training.
“And what have you found so far?”
“It’s a work in progress. Keep answering my questions and we’ll get there together.”
Bruce raises his eyes to the sky for a moment. If he were religious, he’d ask for help with this imperious boy; as it is, he’s asking himself for help with him. “Very well.”
And so the conversation turns from a personal interrogation to a training exercise, where Bruce corrects his question types and his spacing of the questions and then indulges him with the answers that he so obviously wants but Bruce cannot understand the motive behind.
He’s sure he’ll understand later, when Dick is ready to explain.
***
A set of aliens had started to confer with Scarecrow — and isn’t that just Bruce’s worst nightmare? Scarecrow with extraterrestrial knowledge, a wide expanse of things Bruce doesn’t know and can’t ever begin to prepare for, given freely to the monster behind fear gas — and the first thing he did was call Hal about it.
“Hey spooks, what can I do you for?”
“Lantern. I have a case with extraterrestrials, come when you can. Medium priority.”
“Ooo, that’s not a good sign. Same place as last time?”
“Yes.”
He continued to work on the case, hacking the medical files of those who have confirmed the alien-like creatures to be around to check for long term health defects. He’s not expecting to find anything, nothing concrete anyway, but it’s standard protocol to make sure contact with the aliens are not producing negative impacts on his city. He also runs down one of Scarecrows dealers, making him talk about the effects of all the newest drugs pushed by the doctor.
It’s slow going due to his increased paranoia surrounding the alien threats that could be around any corner.
Hal comes into the cave with a bag of takeout and a glowing green aura that drops as soon as the doors close behind him. “Alright spooky, you had the beef and broccoli and the egg rolls, and you can have 2 of my potstickers but no more, I don’t want a repeat of last time, you got it? You’ll ask me first, and then you can have the rest. No exceptions.”
Bruce rolls his eyes in front of the screens and forces down his lips into a flat line before he’s turning towards the lantern and grabbing his cartons. “I’ve got two aliens that might be selling Scarecrow something I can’t account for. If you could help find them, negotiate with them, or at least let me prepare the antidotes for whatever they have access to, that would be great.”
“Right. Scarecrow is the gas one, right? The war crimes type guy? The ‘makes space pirates look like the navy’ guy? The ‘bioweapons that would make the guardians shiver in their boots’ guy?”
“That’s one way to describe him, yes.”
“Fear gas?”
“Yes.”
”Welp. Eat and talk, tell me about these aliens.”
And so Bruce does, stealing only three of Hal’s potstickers before Hal looks down, sighs, loudly laments about how he simply bought too much food, pops one in his mouth and then tips the rest into Bruce’s empty carton. The smile Bruce has, amusement from their well played out ritual that started oh so many years ago on their first stakeout, is covered by the cup of coffee he now brings up to his lips.
The aliens sound more like runaways trying to get in the good graces of someone they deem as powerful than nerdowells trying to create the next weapon of mass destruction for a bit of money off the top.
“That’s what I thought, hence the medium priority, but even without intended negative outcomes, the consequences could be dire if they give Scarecrow a new material to work with that we aren’t prepared for.”
“Fully agree bats, let’s take them home and confiscate whatever they gave to your villain before he can synthesize it completely.”
They leave the cave in the Batmobile, sending the aliens off back to their home planet and defeating Scarecrow while they're at it, putting him back in to blackgate for the foreseeable future.
Back in the cave, watching them, a young bird and an old bat sit in the dark for a long moment past their departure.
“Do you have everything you need for your final bet on the matter, master Dick?”
Dick fidgets and then giggles, smiling at the empty cartons left by the computer. He can hear Bruce now, telling him that the Batcave is no place for a meal, and ushering them both upstairs to Alfred’s welcoming meal.
“Is it enough?”
“Part of a detective’s job is to connect the dots between circumstantial evidence.”
“So he’ll see? Even if I don’t have everything?”
”I do believe you have enough.”
“Good. I’m ready then.”
***
Dick gets home from school and immediately makes his way to Bruce’s study, bursting in without even a knock.
“I have a bet to make!” He announces to the room.
Bruce puts aside the sheets he was signing for WE, places down the pen, and takes off his reading glasses to put his full attention on his son. It’s not unheard of for him to announce the creation of a bet, but it’s usually reserved for the big ones, so he’s ready to have a proper conversation about whatever it is.
“I bet…” he pauses for dramatic effect, “I can prove something to you that you didn’t know.”
“I’m sure that’s true of many things. I do not know everything.”
“That’s not what I mean, B,” he rolls his eyes. Dick maneuvers gracefully to sit on the desk. “You believe otherwise, and I know you’re wrong, and I’m going to prove it.”
Bruce purses his mouth. He’s good, he’d say, at knowing when he doesn’t know something. But to be so wrong about something that even his son has decided to prove him wrong? It must be some social skill, something he’s missed. Did you know it was only recently when Hal had to take him aside and explain the difference between sorry ‘I did something bad and I feel bad about it’ and sorry ‘I feel bad you had to go through that’? That was a weird conversation with Alfred afterwards, as he clarified that Hal had both identified a fault of his and corrected correctly.
Bruce nods and is faintly proud of Dick when he pulls out a manila folder from behind his back. Dick has always resisted writing reports and compiling information like this, so to see him doing it of his own free will gives Bruce a special sort of pride.
Dick makes to hand it over but doesn’t release his own grip on it. “Open mind?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I have another bet. With evidence.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow and Dick releases the folder.
He opens it.
“I bet you’re in love.”
It’s full of photos, handwritten accounts, timelines, and witness statements. He recognizes the organizational system as Dick’s own (it’s most effective if the person using the information organizes it how they personally process it), with photos paired with accounts, sticky notes directly on papers explaining the relevance, and large titles on every piece of paper within the folder, clearly and briefly explaining what it is. He recognizes at least a few papers as coming from Clark, witness statements, and highlighted are areas with keywords, “elevated heartbeats”. Diana has her own statement, a sticky note separating the sections into different specific instances that correspond with the photos that are clipped in. Alfred even has a witness statement, though that’s not surprising: Alfred always knows. And right there in the back is a small note, the handwriting the same as the man discussed throughout the rest of the packet.
It’s him and Hal. It’s all about him and Hal.
There’s a photo — he definitely wiped that bowling alley’s camera roll faster than this could have been recovered, so he’s unsure of how it was found — of Bruce leaning into Hal, and Hal looking back, and Bruce has such a soft smile on his face that he almost doesn’t believe that the same man could go out at night as The Batman. There’s a list of the total amount of times Bruce has taken Dick to the fair or to an arcade (he would like to argue that they have perfectly good video games at home and the fair is far too open and vulnerable, but he promised to have an open mind) compared to the number of arcade games Bruce played with Hal that day at the Bowling alley. Further, there are multiple witness statements from Dick, Clark, and some of the league, with highlighted portions about how there was a shady couple that came in to bowl and was completely ignored by Bruce.
There’s a timeline of Dick’s training schedule over the years on the same graph as times when Hal was off world or injured: there certainly seems to be some correlation between particularly hard training sessions and his unexpectedly long stints in space.
There’s a photo that must have come from Alfred — it’s older than even the league has been around, from when he first met the Green Lantern — and it shows him looking at Hal. Just looking. But it’s placed next to a recent meeting photo where he is looking at Hal, and it’s so obvious when you look at them side by side like this that it’s more than simply trust that has grown between them. He’s looking at Hal in the new photo as if everything Hal is saying is important; and it is. He finds Hal’s work, Hal’s words, Hal’s presence important. More than he used to, more than he realized, more than he may feel towards the rest of the league. And he trusts the rest of league, of course he does, he trusts them with his life and his son’s life, he would trust them with Gotham if needed, but it’s not like Hal.
He…
He trusts Hal with his heart, too, he supposes.
He doesn’t need to look at the rest of the folder, but he does the photos: him and Hal, going over each other’s injuries, gripping each other tightly through a fear that neither of them would ever admit to; him and Hal, looking at each other like they can’t see anyone else around them; him looking at Hal as he talks with Barry, brows softer than perhaps he’s ever seen when looking in the mirror, arm half up as if about to reach for him; and then finally Hal looking at him, an expression that Bruce has seen so often but still had never put to words.
And then the last witness statement. A note, nothing more, unsigned but it’s not as if he doesn’t have his handwriting memorized.
“I do too <3”
He stares at the note for longer than is necessary, more than the time it takes for him to know every curve of the letters, how the second o in too closes but the first one doesn’t, how that emoticon looks so deeply stupid when written onto paper. He looks at it and he picks up the paper, placing it on top of the folder that he closes carefully.
Finally he raises his head to his son, who is looking at him with hope and with fear, with love and adoration, the son who went to so much trouble as to do this, to compile this love confession in a form that Bruce would understand, and who cares enough to worry that he overstepped. He raises his head to his son, his precious, loving son, and he nods.
Dick breaks out in a grin and pounces on Bruce, wrapping his arms around his neck and blabbering about how he got some of the pictures, how Alfred helped him, how so many people were happy to help him get the evidence because everyone just wants him to be happy and everyone can see it but not him and and and.
Bruce hugs Dick right back, overwhelmed only in the best way, filled with love and pride and confusion and his thoughts are full of ‘how did I not see it?’ And ‘has it been too long?’ And ‘how could this ever possibly work?’. Every notion of a relationship he’s ever had was pushed away under the guise of it being too complicated, or not the right time, or being too much to consider when it was barely even a possibility in the first place. But now it’s here, in front of him, and it’s so obvious: he didn’t even have to know it was a relationship to have been having the feelings, the worries, the ups and downs that comes with every relationship.
And with it being defined, whenever they get around to defining it, if they do, he can plan for it, he can make sure he knows what’s going on, he can grip it tight enough that he never lets go. All he had to do was see what was going on and the whole thing would settle into place. All he had to do was accept it and maybe, maybe, he’s able to make it everything he’s ever wanted.
He’s so incredibly happy that Dick did this, and based on his happy noises — noises that he’s sure Dick knows is not being translated, but he’s making anyway — Dick is happy his hunch was right. He’s proud of Dick for putting it together, and yes, he’s proud of his son for going behind his back and making this happen. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“How did, how…” Bruce tries to ask, but he can’t find the words. Dick pulls off and looks at Bruce’s gaze, retracing those three words and that emoticon that Dick knew would be the showstopper of all time.
“I asked him! You know you can just do that, B.” Dick giggles, and wow, Bruce doesn’t think he’s giggled in 2 years or so, definitely not this much, but Dick is so full of joy at this little love story that he’s watched and made come to a sort of fruition that he can’t hold back.
“And you, you’re-“
“Yup! I’ve arranged a custody agreement already — I get you on weekdays and Saturdays, and our normal patrol schedule, and he gets you on Sundays and the occasional date that has to be pre-approved. Plus he can come over for dinner or whatever, but if he does he has to hang out with both of us after.”
“And he-“
“Mmhm!”
“You-“ he laughs. Laughs! It’s so much, and Dick is so happy, and Bruce is willing to do anything to keep him that happy, and if that also comes with a new source of happiness for himself? “I love you, chum.”
Dick’s face gets red and he burrows back into Bruce’s neck — he’s so glad he’s Batman, so he can continue holding his son even as he grows — and lets out a mumble that Bruce is delighted to hear is a, “Love you too, da.”
They continue to laugh and hug and exchange words for the better part of a half hour, until Dick hears the click of the clock and shoots up, excitement evident in his clambering. He pulls Bruce out to the back door, the one leading to the gardens, and impatiently instructs him to get his shoes on.
He pulls him outside and around the rose bushes, out and out along the path until it opens up.
“I know you were probably grasping for anything when you mentioned it, but you said it, so that means it was the truth, at least a little! And then I talked with Alfred about it, and we watched some old movies that he said he used to show you, and then I started to think it was actually perfect! So I planned it with Alfred and, well, I hope you like it!!!”
Ahead of them is a tree, a weeping tree, a weeping tree that he often found himself sitting in or under or climbing on during his youth, a weeping tree that he’d always wanted to show someone, that he always found beautiful but couldn’t properly appreciate without the foil of another person remarking on it.
And under it is Hal, laying sprawled out, twisting his fingers and rotating a floating green blob that morphs into a torus and grows more holes and melds together and stretches and separates for his hand like water and knocks against his other like a solid. Underneath half of his body is a classical picnic blanket, white and red and pink checkers, and to his right is a basket that Bruce knows Alfred would have packed with all of his favorite snacks from the years.
He stops and pulls Dick in for another hug, kneeling down even though Dick is much too tall for that now, and whispers, waterily, “thank you, chum.”
Dick whispers back, “of course. Have fun B.” He grins and then runs back towards the house, looking back just to make sure it’s going as intended.
Bruce stays kneeling for a moment, letting the calm wash over him, letting the silence in the garden settle the nerves that he wouldn’t have gotten even an hour ago, that he wouldn’t have known how to place.
Hal waves at him when he finally gets put together enough to look over.
“Heya spooks, I hope you don’t mind me not standing to greet you. I sat down on the ground and now I’m realizing I’m not exactly 25 anymore.” His voice calls out and it pulls Bruce in, he stands and bends to go under the outermost branches. The construct fades when Bruce enters the space and he looks down at Hal’s peaceful face.
“That makes two of us,” Bruce says as he sits down next to him.
Bruce scans the small area — basket, blanket, bottle of some sparkling drink, Hal looking at him like Bruce matters to him, like this whole idea matters a lot to him. Bruce looks right back, trying to display how he agrees, how this means a lot, how he means a lot, how this whole thing is out of his expertise.
Hal looks like he understands. He also looks like he’s going to wait until Bruce talks first.
“I didn’t know anything about this an hour ago.”
“Yeah spooky, I kinda figured. No pressure, yeah? Just two old guys sitting on the ground and enjoying Alfred’s phenomenal food preparation skills.”
Bruce considers it. Technically, it could mean nothing. They’ve already been operating with the feelings there if unsaid, they could continue as they have been, friends who are particularly friendly, teammates who put a particular amount of trust in each other, lovers in all but title and specifics.
“No,” he dismisses it out of hand.
Hal’s smile is genuine, and what an odd angle for this. One completely horizontal, the other leaning against a tree, like an 80s university movie that was ground breaking at the time but has not aged into anything other than a bunch of 20 year olds filming each other falling in love.
They’ve already done that part though.
Now they just have to learn how to live with it.
“Okay. It means something.”
“Yes.”
Hal hautily points at the basket, “now, what’d Alfie-boy pack for us lovebirds? It’s practically lunch time for me, and I know *you* have the tendency to think the night doesn’t need to eat, so let’s have it.”
And so they sit, laughing, eating, talking, until the sun sits low in the sky and the basket has long since been emptied. They both find themselves quiet for a long pause, the conversation finding a natural pause. “So how’d I do, spooks? Did I make the cut? Was this proper first date material?”
Bruce smiles — he’s found himself smiling so easily here, in the privacy of their company — and cocks his head. “Why? Not planning on seeing if the second could be better?”
“Only if you’ll have me.”
“Hmm…” Bruce stretches his legs, which had made their way on top of Hal’s stomach, so he lets out a wheezing cough from the sudden pressure. “For the sake of science, we’ll have to have repeatable results before we can come to a conclusion on the success of our impending relationship.”
“Mm, talk dirty to me.”
Bruce snorts, an ugly sound that only Hal’s utter unpredictability can ever summon from him. “Yes. You made the cut.” He smiles to himself, “you made the cut much longer ago than I can even think of.”
“Same to you, by the way.”
“Hm?”
“I… didn’t realize what was there, er, here, until Dick asked me. It was… a shock.”
“He’ll do that. I don’t know where he gets half the ideas that he does, but it’s not from me.” Dick really is the light of his life. “It’s good he got this one, though.”
“Yeah. It’s been a long time coming.”
“Did he show you the whole folder?”
“Uh huh. According to Clark the only time your heart rate increases is when you’re around me. Faster than you in the middle of a battle.”
“I know how to fight. This is different.”
“Loud and clear. You’re attracted to me to the max.”
Bruce sits up and leans over Hal. “You say that like you doubt it.”
Hal’s eyes flick down to Bruce’s mouth and his own curls into a smirk. “Not in the slightest. I’m beautiful.”
And Bruce doesn’t have anything to respond with, any attempt to agree would fall flat, so he leans in. Their lips meet as if they’ve done this before, as if their first date that felt like their 40th and their first kiss that feels like their 120th is just a continuation of the inevitability that has led to this exact moment. Hal’s hands find the front of Bruce’s shirt, pulling him in closer and further down, and Bruce puts one hand in Hal’s hair like he’s wanted to do for years and never even realized. It’s chaste, nothing more than the meeting of lips, and then it’s deeper, full of the unsaid things that they’ve felt but never identified, the arguments that were wed more out of worry than anything else, the late night cases that could have ended with more if either had been aware of the sadness that crept up at the impending separation.
They kiss like they had to, at some point, and they kiss like they are culminating a years long relationship that has building to this exact moment, and they kiss like they’re ecstatic at the relationship that may build past this.
They part, and Bruce finds himself staring at Hal again. At his breathless but wide smile, at the way his pupils have enlarged in the dark but he can still make out the bright flecks of Lantern green in the irises, at the way Hal’s eyes flick along his own face, categorizing and memorizing his in the same way he’s doing to him.
They laugh, breathlessly, a release of tension that they can’t believe they never even saw before.
They laugh, and they live, and they love.
Together.