Work Text:
Bruce Wayne sat in the cushy office chair of his far too large study, eyes strained from staring at his computer for so many hours. He was supposed to be writing an email to the marketing department about their new initiative for clean energy. Instead, he found himself re-reading the subject line over and over again as his tired eyes glazed over. God, he really needed sleep. It was 4 AM. He’d been out all night as Batman. He had planned on going to bed immediately after patrol, as any sensible vigilante would, but his deadlines had other ideas.
Bruce put his head in his hands, massaging his temples and rubbing his eyes. He just needed to finish this damn email, and then he would fall into bed and—
“Hey, Bruce,” came a scratchy voice from behind him.
Bruce would have jumped out of his skin had he been a lesser man.
He swiveled around in his chair. Dick Grayson stood in his doorway, attempting to lean casually against the frame. Frankly, he looked far less natural than he appeared to believe himself to be. His hair was sticking up in different directions, and his normally easy smile looked more than a little fake. He wore an ill-fitting t-shirt of some band Bruce had never heard of before, long athletic shorts, and socks rolled down to his ankle with no shoes. The strangest part of all this was, in fact, that Dick Grayson was supposed to be in Blüdhaven. Last he heard, Blockbuster was still toppling empires, bankrupting small businesses, and assassinating various political figures.
Hm.
“Dick. Are you alright?”
Dick opened his mouth, and then closed it. His smile became more tense.
“Do you, uh, do you wanna watch a movie? Or something? You can pick.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes. Dick was avoiding the question. The man’s eyes were darting around nervously, and he started fidgeting with his hands.
Bruce stood up slowly. “Alright.”
Relief seemed to wash over the boy. His shoulders dropped a few inches, and Bruce thought he heard a sigh escape his mouth. “Okay.”
Bruce walked past Dick and out of the room, down the flight of stairs and turned left into the hallway leading towards the main living room. There was a huge brown L-shaped couch, three plush gray armchairs, and a 97 inch TV. By the time Bruce emerged into the room, he could hear Dick’s footsteps several yards behind him. He sat down in the middle of the couch, grabbing the remote and looking back into the hallway to look at Dick when he arrived. He still looked frazzled, tired. Exhausted, really.
Dick flopped down in the corner of the couch, posture slouched and several feet away from Bruce. He didn’t look at him, and instead kept his gaze fixed on the TV.
“So, what are we watching?” Dick asked, coughing into his elbow.
“Mission Impossible,” Bruce replied.
Dick groaned dramatically and closed his eyes. “You always put that on.”
“It’s a good movie.”
“We’ve seen it a thousand times!”
Bruce just stared at him.
“Fine, fine,” Dick said, waving his hand around. “But don’t blame me if I conk out halfway through.”
Bruce grunted in response.
Dick was still fidgeting with his hands by the time the movie was up and running. He kept rubbing one spot on his bicep over and over again with his thumb. Bruce pretended not to notice. He had tucked his feet up onto the cushion and was rocking back and forth ever so slightly, eyes still never straying from the screen in front of them. Bruce shifted a little closer to him, a hand reaching out towards him. Dick flinched violently, and then fell back against the couch with a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Sorry,” he said, staring up at the ceiling and breathing shakily. “I’m good. I’m good…”
“Okay,” Bruce responded. He folded his hands awkwardly in his lap. “Do you want to…”
“No.”
“Okay.”
The movie went on. Dick made half-hearted jokes throughout. You know this stunt is totally unrealistic, Bruce. Remember when I tried it when I was twelve after you grounded me?
How could I forget? You broke your arm.
Yeah, but it was worth it. Tom Cruise is a sham.
Sure.
<<<<……….>>>>
Bruce awoke with a start. He was still on the couch, still in his underclothes, but with a new terrible crick in his neck. A fuzzy blanket was situated on his lap that he was fairly sure had not been there when he had been awake. He rolled his neck, hoping to will away some of the pain, and looked around the room. As the clock indicated, it was 7 AM now, the first rays of weak Gotham sunlight shining through the large windows. He looked to his right where Dick had been sitting, only to see an empty cushion and an ugly throw pillow that Bruce had been meaning to get rid of for years on the ground. There was a small piece of scrap paper sitting there, though, that contained one simple word written in blue ink and a familiar scrawl: Thanks.
Anytime, Bruce thought. He stood up, brushed invisible dust off his pants. It was time to go to bed—for real this time.