Work Text:
Dick woke with the sound of breaking bodies ringing in his ears. When he first came to the Manor, he had the dream every night, but now it was rare if he had it more than once a week. He lay there, panting, trying to get his breathing under control, but every time he blinked, he could see their bodies hit the floor, could feel the panic rise as he realized that there was no net to save them.
The worst moments had honestly been right before, as he had heard the rope snap and watched his parents fall, unable to move, to help, aware this was the last time he would see them alive. It was the lifeless thud of their bodies that haunted him, though. The sickening understanding, as he had knelt between them, sobbing, and his mother hadn’t opened her eyes to comfort him. The sight of his father’s strong hands limp by his side.
Dick started to cry. He was too old for it; he knew he was too old, but he suddenly felt like a very small nine-year-old. He was Robin now. He lived in Wayne Manor. He was rich and strong and would never be so helpless again. He shouldn’t be shivering in his bed, coated in sweat, chased by memories he had worked so hard for the past year to put to rest.
But he was. He dragged himself out of bed, tears still coating his face, and shuffled into the hallway. Alfred kept a dim light on since he often went to bed before Bruce and Dick got home, but Dick suspected the man had also noticed it kept the nightmares at bay. Bruce’s door was slightly ajar, across from his.
Dick remembered the first time he had worked up the courage to go to Bruce after a nightmare. The previous night, he had had a full-on panic attack by himself in his room until, possibly alerted by a sixth sense or possibly by Dick’s loud breathing and banging, Bruce had come into his room. Dick couldn’t recall exactly what he had said, but Bruce had caged him in with his body, physically pinning his arms to his sides, and instructed him to breathe, forcing him to follow the steady rise and fall of Bruce's own chest. Dick was pretty sure that wasn’t proper panic-attack procedure, but somehow Bruce had known it would work for him. After Dick had calmed down, he promptly instructed him to come to him before anything like that happened again. Dick had made his way into the hallway the next night to find Bruce’s door open for the first time. He had crept in, trying to make no noise, but Bruce’s Batman senses had locked in on the boy. He had immediately tensed into a defensive position before he had realized it was Dick. Then he had relaxed, pulled him into the bed, and slung an arm and half his body weight on top of Dick. The heaviness had kept him grounded. After that, Dick had requested a weighted blanket - and received three - but nothing worked quite as well as Bruce.
This time, he shuffled in with no hesitation, yawning loudly. Even being in the room calmed his nerves a bit. Bruce barely woke, just stirred a bit when Dick crawled into the bed and inserted himself underneath the man.
“You ‘kay? Wanna talk about it?” Bruce asked, words slurred with sleep. Dick forced his head into the juncture of B’s neck.
“No, wanna sleep.”
“G’night, chum.”
“G’night, Dad.”
This time, when Dick woke, he was alone in Bruce’s room with the sun streaming in through the window. Since it was summer, Alfred had decided to let him sleep in, so he took the rare opportunity to stretch out in the enormous bed. He lay there for a few seconds, enjoying the warmth, before the memory of the night before struck him.
He sat bolt upright.
Shit.
He had called Bruce ‘Dad.’ He hadn’t even thought about it - it had just slipped out.
Shit.
He felt guilt rising in him and something eerily reminiscent of panic pounding through his veins. He threw off the cover and ran to his room - and when had he started thinking of this as his room? This bed wasn’t his bed, this house wasn’t his home, and the man across the hall certainly wasn’t his father. His dad had been dead for barely a year, and Dick was already replacing his dad as though he had never even existed. Dick searched frantically through his drawers, throwing old homework and baseball game tickets onto the floor. He had kept all those meaningless mementos and couldn’t find -
There it was. All the way at the bottom. The program for Haly’s Circus from that night, with the Flying Graysons gracing the front page. There were his parents, beaming out from the photo, dazzling in their bright costumes. Dick knelt to the floor, full-body sobs consuming him.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean…”
But what hadn’t he meant? Calling him 'Dad' had been an accident, but he had started treating Bruce as a father. He didn’t think constantly about his parents on patrol anymore. He had forgotten their poster at the bottom of the drawer.
That, at least, he could rectify. He lifted the program with shaking hands, careful not to get any tears on it, and carefully rested it on the lamp beside his bed. His parents smiled at him. He cried harder.
“Master Richard?” Alfred usually couldn’t sneak up on him, but Dick had been too preoccupied to notice. He tried to quiet his tears, but it was too late.
“Is this because of the dream?” he asked.
Dick couldn’t explain without sounding ungrateful, so he just nodded. Alfred placed a careful hand on his shoulder.
“Come and have your breakfast. Master Bruce is waiting for you downstairs.”
Dick managed to quell his tears and nod. Alfred left the room, and Dick stared blankly at the wall for a second.
He could manage his emotions. He made a promise to himself, to his parents, that he wouldn’t make that mistake again. This was not his home. He could make a difference in the world here, but he could never go home again, not without dishonoring the love and care his parents - his real parents - had for him. That was evident.
He had gotten himself under control by the time he had changed and made his way back down to breakfast, so he was surprised to see Bruce nervous. It wasn’t obvious unless you made a habit of studying the man, which, of course, Dick had. His hands were a little too still, his eyes unmoving as he stared at the newspaper. He looked up with feigned nonchalance as Dick made his way into the room.
“What’s wrong?” Dick asked. Bruce relaxed immediately - too immediately.
“Nothing, chum. Have some bacon.”
“Did something happen?” Dick took the bacon anyway, in preparation for a quick departure. “Do we have to suit up?”
“What?” Bruce blinked. “No. Nothing’s wrong, Dick. Eat your food. I’m going into work later for a meeting.”
“‘Kay,” Dick answered through a mouthful of bacon. “Is this about the fact that I called you Dad? I’m sorry, it just sort of slipped out. I won’t do it again.”
Bruce froze completely before setting his newspaper down.
“You can call me whatever you like, Dick,” he said seriously. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Well, obviously. Bruce didn’t think of Dick as a son. He had just barely stopped thinking of him as a bother, now that he was useful as Robin.
“Right,” Dick muttered into his food. Why was he upset about this? It’s what he wanted. It would help him keep to the promise he made to himself about seven minutes ago.
“Is that… not right?” Bruce asked, voice tense. Dick looked up at him. His body was still tense, shoulders hunched slightly inwards.
“No… it’s…you’re not my dad,” Dick said forcefully. Maybe a bit too forcefully. He lightened his tone. “You’re right, it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Okay, right,” Bruce said, except his tone was way too neutral now. “Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
The rest of breakfast was silent, and Bruce excused himself far too early to get ready for his meeting. Dick had looked forward to a day exploring the Manor grounds by himself before diving into one of the cold cases he’d been assigned, but the sun-soaked grass wasn’t enticing to him anymore.
After trying to shake himself out of his bad mood and failing miserably, he made his way down to the Batcave. He could see why Bruce liked it. It really was perfect for brooding. He started his training routine, maybe pushing slightly harder than he normally would have. If Alfred found out he was in the cave, he would be in big trouble, but he had a feeling the butler wasn’t looking too hard. He had been slightly exasperated after breakfast, for some reason. Maybe someone had cut the roses the wrong way again.
He started on the rings, which were his favorite. He held himself up, focusing on the burn in his muscles.
It doesn’t mean anything.
And it didn’t. It had been a slip of the tongue. Dick had been half-asleep and fully devastated.
He swung himself around, fully flipping and landing upright again.
But then why had saying it sent him into such a spiral? And why did Bruce’s words put him in such a bad mood? And why did setting up the picture of his parents not soothe his aching heart like it usually did? He just wanted -- ugh.
He just wanted a hug from Bruce.
He swung back around, but he missed the handhold and slipped, falling hard onto the mat. The distance wasn’t long, but he didn’t fall. Not after - he just didn’t. He landed on his ankle, twisting it, and cried out, more in shock than pain.
He sat, dazed, on the floor for a second. Had that been intentional? He didn’t think so. He put a tentative hand down to his foot and felt around. It hurt, but it wasn’t terrible. Probably sprained and not broken. If he could get himself to the kitchen and get some ice, no one would need to know. It should be fine for tonight.
This, as it turned out, was a mistake. Unfortunately, Dick realized this halfway up the stairs, gritting his teeth against yelps of pain. Going either forward or backward was a terrible idea. Bruce was going to kill him. Screw that, Alfred was going to kill him and hide the body before Bruce even got home. And then Bruce wouldn’t even care because he didn’t even think of him as a son, and fuck, now Dick was having trouble breathing again and -
“Chum?”
Was Bruce back? He couldn’t see him like this. Dick was going to say something he regretted.
“Bruce?” he called out, hating how much his voice shook. Bruce was there in an instant.
“What is it?” Bruce knelt on the step beside him, but didn’t wait for him to answer before reaching for his ankle. “You know you’re not supposed to train by yourself.”
His tone was rough, but his hands were gentle. Dick had worked with him for long enough to recognize the brusqueness as concern.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t…I just wanted…” Dick took a deep breath, and the words flowed out of him like he had genuinely zero control of his mouth, which was a bit concerning. “I meant it. The dad thing. Like, calling you Dad. And I don’t think I should have. Because I have a dad already. Even if he’s dead. And I know you don’t want a son, but I think I’ve imprinted on you like some sort of… baby duckling, even though I’m old enough to know better. And I don’t want to be happy here, but I am. And I think my parents would like that, but I don’t know how to do this unless I’m still getting revenge for them. So I just went a little hard when training, but it's fine, it's nothing. And - ow, B!”
“It’s not broken, just sprained,” Bruce pronounced, setting his foot gently back on the ground.”
“I know,” Dick said, his exasperation interrupting his flow of anxiety. “Are you even listening? I already - B!”
Bruce swung him up into a bridal carry.
“If I didn’t want a son, I wouldn’t have taken you in,” Bruce said.
“We both know that’s not true,” Dick grumbled.
“Then I guess I’ve imprinted on you like a mother duck,” Bruce said, then screwed up his face. “Can we change that metaphor?”
“Yeah, we can pretend we said something really cool,” Dick agreed cheerfully. “Like a spider monkey.”
“Or a lion,” Bruce countered.
“Or a bat,” Dick grinned.
“No,” Bruce groaned. They had made it back into the library, but he didn’t set Dick down.
“You know the book Stellaluna?” Dick asked.
“You are not Stellalu- I had a point to make, can I make it?”
Dick rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything. His heart rate might have picked up a bit.
“I said it doesn’t have to mean anything,” Bruce continued. “But it meant something to me. I was… pleased. It's just that the first time I slipped up and called Alfred ‘Dad,’ I wouldn’t leave my room for a week as a way to punish myself. I didn’t want you to put the same pressure on yourself. But I didn’t mean that…I… You know I’m not good at this. But I’m honored to be… whatever to you. Even if it’s only some of the time. It doesn’t mean that I’m replacing John.”
Dick leaned his head against Bruce’s chest. Bruce's nervousness, his terrible explanation, calmed him down. Bruce was making his way up the main staircase. That meant he was taking him to his room, which meant he was going to call Alfred to get ice. They had to present a unified front.
“You’re making such a big deal out of this,” he said, rolling his eyes.
He felt Bruce’s rumble of a chuckle go through him. Dick was pretty sure this wouldn’t be the last time he had self-induced, likely avoidable panic attacks over transition into life at Wayne Manor, but, for now at least, he was fine.
Bruce set him down on his bed. Dick caught a glimpse of the Haly’s program, his parents smiling out at him. Alfred had put it in a frame. He grinned.
“I can still go on patrol, you know,” Dick said, as Bruce straightened to fetch Alfred, “Because it's just sprained.”
“Not a chance, chum. Not for at least a couple nights.”
Ugh. He was such a dad.