Disclaimers: Not even close to mine.
Summary: It's a little like domesticity.
Ratings Note: R.
Author's Note: No, I don't know where this came from, but I
think it's probably at least partially Jane's fault.
Acknowledgments: Bas for making me think of anything but,
Livia for important Bat-ish information.
Feedback: Yes, please. email@example.com
Robin took off his mask and settled down to the business of
becoming Dick again.
There was a process to it -- one he'd developed over the years.
He thought he'd gotten rather good at it, considering. The
Kevlar didn't even have to come off before he was thinking
like *himself* again. Homework, phone calls of apology that
had to be made for appointments broken off, food.
He never thought about food when he was being Robin. (Your
needs are not your own. Your body is irrelevant save in its
capacity to be both weapon and warning)
And really, he thought there was probably something pretty
fucked about having Bruce in his head, having *Batman* in
his head, but...
He still had something to measure himself against.
Bruce was standing at the bank of computers, running his
hand over the main keyboard with a kind of banked, gentle
anger that told Dick all he needed to know. The cowl might
be off, the cape thrown over a chair, but Batman was still in
That was the thing, really. The Batman was always in
residence, and he knew there'd come a day when he
wouldn't remember it otherwise.
Dick shook his head. "I'm gonna see if Alfred left us any
sandwiches or something. Want anything?"
Bruce looked at him blankly for a long moment, blue
eyes far away and more than a little lost. And then he
came back online, flaring and shifting and *alive*, like
the world's fastest-booting computer, and he nodded.
"Something light. I think I won't be awake for much
Dick nodded and headed for the stairs. It was... it was
more than a little disturbing, in more ways than he could
handle thinking about most of the time, but... it was
what it was.
Bruce was... not his father.
And it wasn't as though he hadn't figured that out years
ago -- God, for a long time he'd rejected everything
*remotely* father-like from the man, but the thing was,
he'd stopped trying.
Dick had put on the uniform and become something other
than just the child ostensibly in Bruce's care, and that was
Sometimes Dick thought there must have been some
moment when he could've figured this out without...
without the kind of drama he'd much prefer to avoid. Some
moment when Bruce had looked at him with those Batman
eyes and maybe nodded to himself, and muttered about
Staves, kicks, the amount of punishment a growing body
would take before it just kind of gave up on that growing
Dick stared at himself and smirked. Bruce had maybe
missed that mark by *just* a little.
There was a plate of sandwiches -- crusts cut off, of course --
on the kitchen table, covered with plastic with a post-it note
"Do try to get some rest."
Dick nodded absently and took the plate downstairs with him.
Bruce had given up on fondling the keyboard menacingly
and was... not hunched. Bruce would never hunch (sit and
walk as you intend to live). It was just a particular brand of
straight-backed focus. The key-taps echoed through the
He still had his gloves on, which was something Dick used
to find impressive -- it was *hard* to type in gloves. He
used to try to emulate it, figuring that there'd come a day
when he'd have to use someone else's computer and he
wouldn't want to leave evidence behind, but in the end
it'd all felt too much like being someone he didn't want to
You really couldn't get more non-committal than that. Dick
decided to take it as a half-spoken yes and jumped up to
sit on the console. Held a sandwich directly in front of
Bruce's face until his face crumpled in a kind of irritable
"I said --"
"You said 'mm.' That doesn't count as 'leave me alone' in
English, which happens to be the language we both share."
There was a smile somewhere beneath the skin of his face.
"You speak Spanish. And Romany. And --"
Something a bit too long to be a blink, and Bruce took the
sandwich out of his hands and spun around. Took a bite
and chewed what Dick thought was probably the absolute
minimum number of times. Swallowed. "Is there a reason
you don't want me to work tonight, or should I just count
this as one of those teenaged whims?" A quirked eyebrow.
Dick gave it back and decided not to answer with more than
the sound of his own chewing. Mastication. Heh. He
wondered when that would stop being funny. He swung his
legs a little, then forced himself to stop. He wasn't a kid, and
Bruce knew he wasn't a kid -- counted on it, he thought -- but
it was never good to give messages that weren't intentional.
(Be as you want to be perceived.)
Dick swallowed and stared at his bare feet. There were socks
in the denuded pile of clothes Alfred had left for him, but it
hadn't seemed worth the effort. Curled his toes.
A long moment, another, and Bruce was dusting crumbs off
his hands and off the uniform and turning back to the console.
"Do you even know what kind of sandwich that was?"
"That wasn't what I asked --"
"And again, I'm forced to wonder if you *want* the jewel-
thieves to get away."
No answer but the click of the keys, but there was tension in
his shoulders. Something the cape would cover. He would
take what he could get.
"We have to talk about this."
Bruce stopped typing with an absent but utterly obvious...
gesture of anger? Frustration? Hard to say. He spun around
to face Dick again. "All right. It shouldn't have happened."
He moved to turn back to the computer but Dick caught his
shoulder before he could complete the motion.
Hard, muscular, but no heat escaped through the uniform.
"I think... I think there needs to be a little more than that."
A twitch of the mouth, just enough to show a hint of teeth.
Dick took a shuddering breath and watched it impact on
Bruce like a particularly well-aimed blow. "I've thought about
it, you know."
A look somewhere between bleak and blank.
"A lot. At night, at school. In my dreams. I'm pretty sure the
only time I haven't been thinking about it is when we're out.
"All the more reason to get back to this."
"We can't wear the uniforms... not all the time."
"Dick, you have to know --"
"No. *No*. There's one thing I have to know, and I don't
think you have any idea what that is --"
"You were Dick to me. And Robin. You always are."
And Dick wanted to question that, wanted to batter at it, or
maybe at some handy member of the criminal element, but
there was nothing but the truth there. And Bruce looked
almost *pleading*, like there was something breaking apart
beyond whatever he wanted to show the world at that
moment. And... it was what he needed to know. More or
He shook his head and let Bruce go.
For a moment, just a moment, he thought Bruce would be
the one to keep this... this damned stupid necessary
conversation going, but he only stared. "You were Bruce to
me," he said. "Only him."
"I... we can't do this again."
There was a bundle of raw feeling packaged ill and hard
somewhere in his chest. He didn't want to deal with it,
look at it... he thought, if he was careful (trust your instincts.
trust mine if you can't trust yours.), he would just forget it
existed after a while. Instead, he leaned down and in and
smelled the uniform and smelled the cologne Dashing
Socialite Bruce Wayne had decided needed to be worn, or
that Batman decided Bruce needed to wear, and smelled
the roast beef from the sandwich and tasted... everything.
Bruce's mouth was still beneath his own, but open, and
Bruce's tongue moved like it was a real kiss, like they were
really kissing, and then there was a broad, hard hand on
his shoulder pushing him away. "Don't."
Dick squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and jumped off
the console. Walked over to where he'd stripped and pulled
the mask back on. He could feel Bruce's eyes on him,
pulling him back and... what? Pushing him away? Urging
him on? Show it to me, he didn't say. Show me what you
The work of a moment to crawl into the chair with him,
straddle his legs and rub the edge of the mask up over a
stubbled cheek and slack mouth.
And then it wasn't slack at all and Bruce's hands were
holding him close and holding him still and Bruce's tongue
was fucking his mouth. Dick tasted acid and need and
something a lot like hate and pulled back just long enough
to pant, "it's still me under here."
Bruce bit the edge of his jaw, not hard but oddly desperate.
And that was... good enough.