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Dick knew many things about his dad. He knew how he took his coffee, the process he liked to follow when inspecting a crime scene, and the way he frowned when he worried about Dick or one of his siblings.
There was one thing he didn’t understand, though.
Not quite a thing as much as a person, that is.
Ghost-Maker.
Why did Bruce keep him around? Why did he forgive him for his many wrongdoings? Why did he trust a murderer when his whole justice code went against killing?
He hadn’t dared ask Bruce about it. Even back when he was younger and got told bits and pieces about Bruce’s past with Ghost-Maker, Dick seemed to know it was too painful a topic to bring up. Even now, he hesitated, feeling like Bruce wasn’t quite ready to open up about it.
So, he stayed quiet. And he wondered, to himself and to no one else, if even Bruce himself didn’t know why. Maybe he just knew, deep within himself, that he had to keep trying.
And Dick couldn’t say he was completely misguided. Ghost-Maker had abided by Bruce’s rules and operated in Gotham with the utmost efficiency, which didn’t make him any less of a stranger but proved that he could be useful.
Now, Dick watched as Bruce and Ghost-Maker sparred. Tim was somewhere nearby, using the Bat-computer for a case. Damian was upstairs doing his homework, and Cass had gone to get some takeout for their post-patrol debrief.
Dick was the only one paying attention, so he caught it the second it happened.
Ghost-Maker had just managed to flick Bruce onto his back on the mat. He smiled, his lips curving upward in an expression of pure delight that even the fabric he used to cover the upper half of his face couldn't hide.
Dick staggered. He had never seen the man look anything other than mildly bored.
“You’re holding yourself back,” he said, extending a hand to help Bruce up. His dad took it easily.
“You don’t think you can beat me unless I do?” Bruce joked, lifting his arms again in a defensive stance. “Given up yet?”
Ghost-Maker clicked his tongue and pushed Bruce with his shoulder, ignoring his question. “Let’s go again.”
Bruce shrugged, bracing himself. He was the one smiling now.
Dick watched as they started fighting again. They were a blur of movement, swift kicks and punches being thrown around with the careless nature of two people born to be fighters.
And, this time, Dick could tell Bruce held nothing back. He was vicious in the way he didn’t allow himself to be even against thugs and rogues. This was Bruce with no restrictions or judgements.
He watched as Ghost-Maker took it all in stride. Every punch was blocked swiftly, every kick was returned in kind, every dirty move echoed with no hesitation.
By the time they were locked in a stalemate, Dick wasn’t paying attention anymore.
No, he was realizing a few things very abruptly.
Bruce hadn't asked Ghost-Maker to stay out of purely humanistic concern for a lost soul. There was more to it than he could even hope to start understanding. Those two could speak to each other in a language of violence Bruce had taught none of them.
Lastly, he realized that Bruce needed Ghost-Maker more than he wanted to admit.
Where else could Bruce go to find someone so simultaneously non-judgmental and ruthless? Someone willing to call him out but also to take the darkest parts of him in stride with no fear for them?
Dick felt a bit lightheaded as he came to one dangerous conclusion.
Bruce might just love this man.
His dad might just truly love a retired killer with a sense of justice as complex as quantum physics. And he was apparently clueless about it.
“Dick?” He heard his name being called out as if from a distance. When he looked up, though, he found Tim standing close by. “Are you okay?"
“Yes,” he was quick to reply, knowing he didn’t sound very convincing. “I’m good.”
Tim looked at him for a moment but settled for asking no further questions. “Cass is back with food. I'm going upstairs.”
Dick nodded. “I’m right behind you.”
Tim walked away the next second, just in time for Dick to look back at Bruce and Ghost-Maker, who were finally done with their sparring.
“So, how about a rematch?” Bruce asked, drying off his sweat with a white towel.
Ghost-Maker remained quiet for a moment, his own towel hanging around his neck. Then, he said, “I’ll be back again next week.”
Bruce nodded as Ghost-Maker walked away, his eyes glued on him. “Deal,” he replied, more to himself than to the retreating man.
Bruce’s shoulders were relaxed, his body clearly exhausted but settled in a way Dick rarely ever saw.
For a moment, he looked younger. Like a boy without the weight of the world on his shoulders instead of a man responsible for a whole city and a whole family.
Dick didn’t say a word. He turned around and climbed the stairs.
Whatever he found out today would be his secret to keep. He could do his dad that favor, for however long it took until Bruce himself realized it.
Still, something told Dick it would be sooner rather than later.