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“In my defense, you were supposed to be out,” Dick says dryly. He’s propped up against the Batcave wall, the top part of his suit yanked down to his hips, and hands covered in a thick layer of blood. It’s not his proudest moment. But also, patching up a bullet wound is not the worst thing Bruce has caught him doing in the cave.
Bruce stares at him, for long enough that Dick’s a little worried he’s finally broken his brain. He must’ve caught Batman on a long night. Usually he’d be yelling right about now. Because there’s always something to be yelling about. Dick should be more careful. He shouldn’t be dropping blood all over the floor. He shouldn’t be showing weakness. He can’t let anyone know he’s human-
Dick has to swallow the anger he hadn’t even noticed climbing in his throat.
He hasn’t thought of the old days in a while, and it’s been even longer since he’s felt real anger over them. But forgetting his past is always easy in his own city. The Batcave holds memories he’s always been eager to avoid.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dick says, filling in the silence as Bruce doesn’t answer. The flare of pain as he shifts makes his vision grow hazy. “I know. I’ll be out of your hair in a second. I ran out of-” He waves the strand of suture material in the air where it’s knotted around his fingers. It’s already slippery with blood and he hasn’t even used it yet. Is that okay? He’s not sure. If it’d been any of his siblings, he would’ve demanded clean thread and at least some anesthetic around the wound. But the best he’d managed to do was splash some cleaning solution over it. The sooner he can get out of here the better.
Bruce still doesn’t say anything. But he does move, closing the distance between them in long, even strides. Despite himself, Dick’s breath catches.
The thing with Bruce is, no one is ever sure how he’ll react. Batman sways wildly between anger and a calm superiority. It’s moments like this that makes Dick almost crave the old days. Back then, Bruce’s anger had been a constant in his life. But it was also something he could always rely on. It was the thing that pushed him through his grief, through the worst parts of his life.
Without it, Dick would have been lost.
That’s something that had taken years of therapy to make him admit, and even longer to move past. Bruce had done the best he could with the circumstances he had. He’d been grieving too. They’d been angry together.
But two flames just make a brighter fire.
“What happened?” Bruce asks, voice low. He stops by Dick’s side, not exactly next to him, but near enough for his words to be heard.
'“Got shot.” The words drop through Dick’s teeth as he finally pushes the needle into his side. Fuck! It still hurts. Bullet wounds never magically get easier.
The flippancy must annoy him, as Dick knew it would, because even he can see the way Bruce’s shoulders tense at the words. Dick thought he’d moved past this; picking fights with his father. They hadn’t actually had an argument in years. Not a real one. But Dick’s learned how to sidestep their triggers. Talking to Bruce is a lot like sparring with him. Dodge when you know your opponent’s power is greater than yours. Use their strength to your advantage.
They’ve been partners long enough for Dick to know the steps to this routine. But the pain makes it so much harder to keep his thoughts in check.
“Sorry,” he sighs as his fingers tremble. He pulls the needle, flinching at the feeling of thread sliding through his skin. It’s enough to make his stomach flip. None of the Bat family are strangers to pain. It’s a common side effect of fighting alongside legends. But that doesn’t mean they like it.
Bruce turns this time, finally facing Dick. His eyes are unreadable through the cowl, but Dick can still see the tension. The way his stance falls so that his weight is balanced, the way his shoulders pull back, the way his gloved hands roll into fists. Even Batman has his tells, and Dick’s father faces family conflicts the same way he faces villains.
“Why?”
Dick laughs, a hollow, painful sound. The needle trembles between his fingers and falls into his lap. “Shit.” But the pain is too much. He needs a second. A second without Bruce staring at him. No - without Batman staring at him. The Batman who wages wars in the stars.
“Why am I sorry?” Dick asks, falling back against the wall behind him. “You just seem tense. Did I pick a bad time?”
“Did you pick a bad time to get shot?”
Batman’s words are calm. Evenly spaced. Carefully placed. That’s how Dick knows this isn’t just a regular bad mood. Bruce is trying to control himself. And that only happens-
Well, usually when Dick’s on his deathbed. Or Bruce has fucked up enough to actually feel bad about it.
He shakes his head, trying to catch his breath through the pain. His heart is racing in his chest, but every breath just sends blinding pain through his side.
And still, Bruce stares.
And Dick is in no mood to hold back. “Did I do something to piss you off today?” Or any day, really. Bruce can hold a grudge like no other. Superman beat him in a spar once, and a month later Batman had contingency plans for the entire JLA.
But Bruce does something unexpected. He lifts his hand, and pulls the cowl from his head. He doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, his shoulders loosen, and when Dick can finally see his eyes, they’re not blazing and cold, but soft, and filled with some emotion Dick cannot recognize on his father’s face.
“Do you want some help with that?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, but crosses the gap between them, and gently picks the thread up from where it’d fallen on Dick’s knee.
“I got it,” Dick says, raising his hand to take the needle.
Bruce frowns. He doesn’t release the tool. “We’re going to have to redo all of this. You’ve-” He pulls a glove off his hand, and before Dick can stop him, uses his thumb to trace the torn flesh marring his side.
Dick yelps. He stuffs his knuckles into his mouth, trying to stop the sound. The pain is so intense it steals his breath away.
“Sorry, sorry,” Bruce’s voice rings in his ears. It’s so unfamiliar, it almost takes distracts Dick from the gaping wound in his side. “I didn’t realize-”
The ridiculous sentence dies between them.
“You didn’t realize being shot hurts?” Dick finishes for him with a tight, dry smile.
“Sorry,” Bruce repeats again.
The apology sounds so genuine, so misplaced, the teasing smile dies on Dick’s lips. “It’s okay. You were trying to help.”
But Bruce is already turning away, walking to the cabinet where they keep their medical supplies. Half the drawers are already open, and a streak of blood drips from the top handle. Dick had already torn it apart looking for thread.
“Sorry for the mess,” he calls. The words are lost to the breathless pain clawing in his lungs.
Bruce doesn’t answer. He pulls open the bottom drawer, and returns with an arm full of bandages and bottles.
Dick makes a face.
Bruce rolls his eyes.
Sometimes they cannot help but fall into the patterns of father and son. Even now. Even after so long.
“You took out the bullet,” Bruce says, dropping the tools onto a table beside them.
“Yeah. At home.”
“That wasn’t a question. You did a terrible job of it. What were you thinking?”
“That I wanted that bullet out of me really, really bad and I didn’t have any anesthesia or tools.”
“What have I told you-”
“- always prepare for the worst,” Dick finishes for him. The smile returns, even as he pushes himself up, trying to reach for the fresh thread caught in the bundle of supplies.
Bruce swats his hands away. “I’m doing it. Sit down.”
“I have it. Really. You don’t have to-”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“Would you let Alfred help?”
It’s a harsh accusation. Bruce’s words are sharp. His jaw is tight. There’s anger there, playing along the lines in his brow and the corners of his eyes.
Dick swallows. “That’s not fair.”
He hadn’t been there when Alfred-
When-
His other father had-
He has to look away, to turn his glare to the floor instead of Bruce. He would only see it as a challenge.
But again, Batman surprises him. Dick feels a weight on his shoulder as Bruce squeezes him gently.
“You’re right. It’s not. I’m sorry.”
Dick looks up, shocked.
“But I do want to help. Just, let me help, Dick. Okay?”
And god, he wishes this didn’t feel so familiar. Usually it was him begging to help one of the younger Robins. He’d plead with Jason to ask Dick for help before letting himself bleed out on the streets. He’d pleaded with Tim to let him take some of the burden Bruce placed on his shoulders. He’d plead with Cass to not go so hard on herself, and for Steph to just let him help her carry the guilt she held over her past. And Damien? He’d spent over years pleading with that kid to let him in. To let him help.
Dick feels a flash of sympathy for his father. He’d spent so long trying to avoid their constant fights, he hadn’t realized how much he’d been pushing him away in the process.
“Okay. Thank you.”
Bruce nods, and gets to work. Dick’s thankful for the excuse to look away, glad to not have to stare at the sight of his mangled side. Bruce had been right; he hadn’t been doing a very good job. It’s harder to stitch yourself up than the movies make it look. Blood makes things slippery, and pain makes you shaky. Not a good mix when you’re trying to pull your skin back together.
Alfred had always been the one to help him when he couldn’t do it himself.
Batman had never- he’d never needed to.
And then Dick had learned enough to take over for his siblings, for a time. He had usually been Alfred’s right hand when it came to broken bones or pulling bullets from flesh.
He wondered who had stepped in after- while he’d been away… recovering…
But maybe he doesn’t have to wonder. Bruce’s hands are sure. He follows the steps like it’s second nature.
A wave of jealousy floods through him.
So, Bruce can step up. It just takes Dick not being there to do it. And if Bruce had been able to take care of his children like this the entire time, why had it been up to Dick to take on the emotional-
No. He swallows the anger again. He can’t let it build. It’s not worth it. And Bruce is trying. He can see it.
“So,” Bruce’s voice breaks in, low and steady. “What did happen?”
“I got shot,” Dick repeats. He fixes his stare downward. Blood dapples the floor like rain. He’s going to have to clean that up, and he bets no one’s been stocking up on the cleaning supplies.
Bruce growls.
Dick snorts.
It’s easy to fall into familiar patterns.
“You don’t have to hide your-”
“Mistakes?” Dick jumps in before Bruce can finish the thought. It’s like a wire has been snapped. It’s almost too easy to find the flash of hurt that passes through Bruce’s eyes.
But again, he doesn’t rise to it. It’s like their roles have been switched. Bruce’s shoulders loosen, his gaze softens. “No. You don’t have to hide your pain .” He nods to Dick’s hand, which has wrapped itself around the table without him noticing. A way to brace himself through the slide of the needle and thread.
He just bites his tongue. Having to hide his pain from Bruce is second nature. And he knows they can’t do this. They can’t fall into these patterns. But he’d spent decades hiding his weaknesses. It’s not something easily broken.
Again, it’s Bruce who breaks the silence.
“When I first saw you-... you scared the shit out of me.”
Dick’s brown furrows. He turns, surprised at the words. “What?”
“Seeing you covered in blood like that. I just thought… the last time you were hurt…”
Oh.
Oh… fuck.
The last time he’d been hurt was a time Dick can barely remember. A bullet to the head does that to you. To him there’d been a flash, then nothing, and then pain. Then months in a hospital bed, and months more of recovery. But the actual injury meant almost nothing to him. The recovery was the thing that’d sent him running for so long…
Weakness had never been tolerated in their home. That had been something he’d known deep in his bones, without even remembering his own name.
“Sorry.” This time he knows what he’s apologizing for. “I didn’t think about that.”
Bruce shakes his head. “Dick, why are you apologizing? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Dick frowns. Why is Bruce so argumentative about this? Usually all it took was an apology to smooth things over. If he was quick enough. If he caught the blaze of anger fast enough. "Because… because I should have thought about that. Before coming here. I should have been more careful. I should-”
But Bruce’s hands are suddenly cupping his face. His thumbs drag gently against the blood flaking on Dick’s cheeks.
“It’s not your fault you were hurt. This time. Or last time. Definitely not the last time.”
Bruce is trying. The realization hits like a bolt of lightning. This is Bruce really trying.
Dick pushes him away. His stomach churns.
“You don’t even know what happened. This time.”
He ran away. No matter what Bruce says, he knows that part is his fault. He ran away from Jason, from Tim, from Steph and Cass and Duke. He ran away from Barbara. He ran away from Damien. He ran away from Alfred .
“So, tell me. And more than just you got shot this time, please.
Dick frowns. But he does. “I was stupid. I should have called for backup. The Titans are right there in Blud now. You were right, I always run in-”
But he stops as Bruce places a hand on his knee.
“Not what you should have done. I’m not punishing you. What actually happened?”
Dick swallows. This is such unfamiliar territory, he can almost understand how easy it is to get angry at this soft love thing. Now he knows why Damien rages at him when Dick forgives his mistakes. It’s easier to fight someone else’s anger sometimes. To stick up for yourself and reason away the punishments. This is so much harder. Reality always is.
“They took Haley.”
“Who?”
Dick sighs. Tim, goddamn it. “Bitewing. My dog? They took her. It was just some kids. I took her to Haven, and I guess The Dick Grayson’s dog goes for a hefty price with the right people.”
There’s a lot of people who want revenge on Dick Grayson. They might have rooted out a lot of the criminal masterminds of the city, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t some still loyal to them. He’d lost his apartment, almost lost Haven, and he knew that wouldn’t be the end of it. There are certain problems that arise with announcing you’re going to take on an entire corrupt city on live TV. He just never would have thought so many criminals would be after his dog . “I can’t blame them… they were probably offered a lot of money for just a dog, right? And I know Haven is trying - I’m trying my best to help them, but it’s slower than I thought it would be. Especially with so many people trying to fight against us. Like those police raids, and-”
“Dick.” It’s a calming voice. So misplaced on Batman.
“Right. Sorry.” Dick charges forward before he can be chided for his apology. “I went after them by myself. I thought if I could catch up to the kids, I could convince them to let me take her back. I didn’t even let anyone know I was going. But the people who paid them got there before I did. There were guns involved. Big surprise. I didn’t even have my suit on.”
Bruce stills.
“Don’t worry. Secret identity is still intact. I managed to duck out of the way and switch before they even noticed I was Dick Grayson. But the bullet clipped me. Obviously.”
“No. Dick, I’m not- You were fighting without your suit?”
“Not for long. I swear.”
Bruce huffs. “That’s not what I mean I-” But the fight dies out before he can push onward. His grip, which had been digging into Dick’s knee, loosens. “I’m glad you’re safe. I’m proud of you.”
”For… getting shot?” Dick asks, incredulously.
“No. But you did what you thought was right. You tried to deescalate the situation with those kids before you went for a fight. You always see the best in people, remember, that’s why we asked you to take over the JLA.”
“I seem to remember something like that,” Dick says, softly. But he looks down at himself. At his skin, still streaked with blood. At the wound, half sewed together by Bruce’s thread. “But how can I lead the Justice League when I can’t even fight a few guys with guns over a dog?”
Bruce pushes the needle through again, his fingers gentle against the wound. Dick lets out a breath. But Bruce’s anesthetic is kicking in, and this time it doesn’t send a flare of agony through his side. Small mercies.
“Did we pick Jon to lead the league?” Bruce asks, suddenly.
“… no?” Dick answers, slowly, confused. What did Jon have to do with anything? His thoughts flicker to the last time he’d seen Superman’s son. He hopes he’s having an easier time after their training lessons. He hopes he isn’t being too hard on himself. It’s easy to beat yourself up when you have a legend to live up to….
“Did we ask anyone with super strength? Super endurance? Super speed?”
“Okay, now I’m starting to wonder if you want me to have superpowers or something. What’s your point?”
“We could have asked anyone stronger than you or faster than you to take over, Dick.”
“Gee, thanks. Now I feel loads better.”
“But we didn’t. Because that’s not that makes a leader. Superman chose you to mentor his son because you’re kind. The Titans chose you to lead because you’re smart. Because you’re stronger without powers, not with them. We see things differently because we have to. You see things differently, because you’ve always had to. Even when you were a child. When you knew justice for Zucco was prison, not revenge. I was so proud of you for that. You’re a good person, Dick. That’s why we chose you. And I think part of that is despite of me.”
Dick stares.
“No. I know that part of that is despite of me. Because you try so hard not to be like me. And I am so, so thankful for that. When you were hurt…”
His voice trails off.
“Bruce, you don’t have to-”
“No. I do. When you were hurt, when Alfred died, there was no one there for our family. And I never appreciated how much you do for them. I let you do the hard part while I carried on. It’s something you need to hear. I am grateful you turned out nothing like me. You are so much like him , Dick.”
Him. Alfred. Dick’s second father. The one who stitched their wounds together, who was the shoulder to cry on, the one who demanded the Robins take breaks to be children, not legends.
“I miss him.” Dick’s voice is a ghost of a whisper.
“I do too. Every day. But he would be so proud of you.”
Dick smiles at the familiar words. It’s a mantra everyone in their family had been repeating. The dead are proud of them. But sometimes, so are the living.
“He’d be proud of you too,” Dick says. I’m proud of you . He grazes his thumb over the neat, finished stitches embedded in his side. “Thank you, for helping me.”
Bruce smiles. It’s a warm, soft smile. “Don’t tell anyone, but I practiced on a kit I bought online for months.”
A surprise gasp of laughter bursts out of his lips, sending a bolt of pain through his side. “You what? When was this?”
“When you were recovering. I was worried about the kids. Tim falls off his skateboard a lot.”
Dick has to laugh even harder. “He fights crime every night.”
“And he wears his suit for that! Do you know how often I see him without a helmet when he’s on that thing?”
Dick shakes his head, tears in his eyes. He’s not sure when it happened, but at some point, Bruce had become a father. Not just a guardian, not a legend to live up to, not a placeholder while he grieved… but a real father.
And for the first time, there was no rush of resentment about missing out.
Bruce rises from his seat and holds out a hand for Dick. “Staying for dinner?”
“Yeah. Okay.”