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1.

It's after a nightmare, one that had led Dick running to find Bruce. It had been one of those rare dreams that only left a sour aftertaste but none of the actual images. 

Bruce has a heavy arm over his chest and another stretched out that Dick is using as a pillow. By his breaths, he's most of the way to sleep.

“Bruce,” Dick whispers.

Bruce stirs. “Hmm?”

Dick squirms and shifts until he's facing Bruce. Or rather, until he's facing Bruce’s chin. Bruce’s arms tighten around him, the one Dick had been lying on coming to curl around.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Bruce’s voice is stilted, as though he didn’t have much practise saying those words. Dick supposes he doesn't - Bruce leads a solitary life. Questions like this were more intimate than he's probably accustomed to.

“Not nightmare related,” Dick says. “Just…” he stifles a yawn, “I already have a dad, y’know? So you don’t have to be my new dad. I don’t really want you to be my dad, anyway. We can be friends. Partners.”

Bruce seems to sigh in relief, having stiffened up halfway through Dick’s speech. “Friends and partners, then.”

And they were in agreement.

2.

Bright lights overhead are making Dick's head hurt. It doesn't help that he's been up for almost an entire day, out for much later than usual as Robin. He stifles a yawn and smiles charmingly at the socialite currently trying to squish his cheeks into oblivion.

"He's such a dear," she coos. "I wish my boys would be more like yours, Brucie."

Bruce had better reimburse him for this, Dick thinks sourly as her many rings poke his face.

Bruce, who had just finished what had evidently been a funny anecdote, turns around and puts an arm around Dick. He stumbles just enough that it seems like Dick is dragged back by his weight. 

Dick places a steadying arm on Bruce and sighs internally in relief at being removed from under the pointy grasp of the woman standing in front of them.

"I see you've met my ward, Angela," Bruce says, clapping Dick on the shoulder.

Angela is probably nearing fifty, and with the sheer layering of foundation on her face, appearing closer to sixty. The glare coming off her earrings does nothing to help Dick's headache.

"Please, reaquaint me," she purrs, moving to Dick's free side.

In a feat Dick had previously thought impossible, Bruce trips over his own feet and manages to yank Dick away, making him stumble and almost capsizing the duo. 

"Think I've had a little too much fun tonight, Angie," Bruce says in that voice Dick hates, chuckling a little. "And it's much past Dick's bedtime. Gotta be a responsible guardian now, don't I?"

If Angie notices a rather rapid decline in Bruce's sobriety, she doesn't show it. Instead, she sighs dramatically. "It's barely even eleven," she says. "Surely you aren't going to turn in now. There's still so much... night to be had."

Dick doesn't know exactly what she means, but he can get the general gist of it.

Next to him, Bruce laughs a little. He's always laughing at these. "What makes you think I don't plan on having a night ?"

With that, and a number of farewells to people Dick smiles and nods at, they make their way to the main entrance, where their car has already been pulled up. Dick slides in and Bruce enters after him, letting out a draining sigh after the door is closed.

"That was worse than I thought it would be," Dick comments. He leans forward and starts opening the compartments in the car, looking for the snacks Alfred keeps there.

"Are you still hungry? I saw you finish half the buffet alone." Bruce has his head tilted back against the headrest, bowtie open.

Despite the uncomfortable clothes, Dick's used to this part of showmanship - it's not like the trapeze is the only act he's ever worked. So instead of chafing at the bit, he takes out the egg and cucumber sandwiches he's just found and starts eating.

"I worked it all off talking to your stuffy friends," he says.

"They're not my friends."

Dick shrugs. "Fake friends, then." He chews before adding, "When you said night thing, did you mean our night thing, or the kissing night thing?"

"I meant the faceplanting on my bed and sleeping night thing."

"Oh." Dick had spent most of the night in hopes of being able to work off the frustration from the gala out on Gotham rooftops. He chews on the second sandwich.

"Maybe," Bruce says.

"Hmm?"

"Maybe we'll go out. Patrol."

Dick lets out a massive grin, whooping. Bruce instantly wrinkles his nose. 

"You're brushing your teeth the second we get home. Drink water, at least.

Dick complied, chugging down a bottle. 

3.

"UNCLE CLARK!"

Dick leaps for Clark with just as much ferocity and speed as he leaps for Bruce. The only difference is that most of the time he isn't beaming like summer had come early. 

Bruce watches on with a glower as Clark catches Dick and spins in the air at the force, flying upwards a little. Dick clings to his middle like a limpet, and Clark has a supporting arm around him to make sure he doesn't fall. 

"Dick!" Clark exclaims, like he's surprised, like this isn't how Dick has greeted him for as long as he's known him. Bruce wonders when he'll grow out of it, and then brushes the petty thought away. 

"Bruce didn't tell me you were visiting!" Dick is still sticking to Clark like there's no tomorrow. If Bruce were a smaller man, a weaker man, he would've said something like Clark's tired now, you can get off or don't you have homework to finish? or even I changed my mind; Clark has to leave Gotham immediately.

"He wanted to keep it a surprise," Clark says, smiling over Dick's head at Bruce in that bright, cheerful way he has. "I'm taking you out for the day."

Dick's face, which had already been glowing, is now somehow even brighter . Bruce tells himself he's doing it for Dick, because it'll make Dick happy, and it'll let him actually get some work done. He tells himself he has plenty of opportunity to take Dick places himself - he lives with the boy - and there's no reason to be bitter at being stuck in an office room. 

Alfred is making soup in the kitchen. He pauses when Bruce walks through on his way to his office. 

"I trust Mr Kent will be with us for dinner, Master Bruce?"

"Yes," Bruce says. "Unless he kidnaps Dick for dinner, too."

Alfred raises an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that you were the one who suggested the outing."

"I did," Bruce grumbles. 

Work is efficient and smooth and boring. He finds himself keeping an ear out for the creaks and squeaks of the wooden flooring that mean that Dick is walking past. Half his brain is focusing on listening for whoops that mean that Dick is doing something he probably shouldn't be.

Bruce texts Clark a question mark. He glances at the clock - it's only been an hour. He still has nine more to go. 

Clark responds with a selfie of himself and Dick eating pancakes. Bruce carefully puts his phone away and settles another stack of paperwork before him. 

Lunch is a quiet matter that takes place almost without Bruce noticing. Alfred had at some point placed a tray of sandwiches and fruit beside him, and either someone had stolen half of Bruce's lunch or he's eaten it without realising.

The clock reads one. Dick and Clark are returning for dinner at seven, which is much farther away than Bruce anticipated. 

He texts Clark another question mark, because he doesn't know how to say remember to feed him without sounding like an overbearing parent, and he's neither of those things.

This time there's no response for forty-nine minutes, and Bruce spends each of those minutes alternating between plots to hunt down the Kryptonian and keeping an eye on news headlines while he tries to finish reviewing that WE project draft he promised Lucius he'd send back today.

When Clark does get back to him, Bruce is in the middle of an intense daydream where he hurls a Kryptonite dagger at the man for taking off with his ward. The phone buzzes and Bruce doesn't leap for it, he doesn't.

There's another picture of them, this time of the upper part of Clark's face with Dick climbing a tree in the background, that grin still on his face. There's a text accompanying it: sorry. we were flying.

Bruce doesn't respond with anything. He hopes Dick throws up on Clark, and then immediately takes back the wish. He hates it when Dick is sick.

Clark and Dick's presence is noticeable the second they return, just in time for dinner. Bruce can hear their voices all the way from his office, where he still hasn't finished all the work he told himself he was going to. He blames it entirely on Clark and his terrible response time.

"Bruce!" Dick waves from where he's already seated at the table. Bruce can't help remembering that morning when Dick had leapt up from breakfast to hug Clark. "Did you get through everything?"

Bruce hums in response, unwilling to tell him the truth on the off chance that Clark will offer to take Dick again the following day. "Did you have a good time?"

Dick nods. "Uncle Clark is the best!" And thus dinnertime conversation is taken care of.

Clark is quiet during the meal, willing to let Dick talk as much as he wants and interjecting when the story calls for it. He's quick to compliment Alfred on the meal, which means that all of Bruce's murder plots, had he tried to act on them, will be in vain.

Bruce and Clark move to the sitting room with warm drinks in their hands. Clark is still his best friend, despite incidents involving the hijacking of his ward, and conversation flows. Even after all the time he's known Clark, Bruce gets surprised by how easy it is to talk to him. 

Clark is in the middle of describing Lois' expression when he tried replicating his mother's famous apple pie when he stops, a fond smile growing on his face. Bruce follows his eyesight and sees Dick asleep, curled up in the armchair he'd seized control of.

Bruce had noted his breathing deepening a while ago, but decided to leave him where he was. 

"You want me to take him up?" Clark asks softly.

"No, I'll do it." The words are out of his mouth before he has time to think.

Bruce stands and walks over to where the boy is curled up into a little ball, strands of hair falling into his face. He's due for a haircut soon. It's a wonder he's managed to escape Alfred this long. 

The real miracle, Bruce notes, is that he manages to unfurl Dick without waking him up. Dick is heavier than he looks now, as opposed to how he was when Bruce first took him in, when his appetite had all but disappeared in his wake of his parents' deaths. It'd taken Robin to motivate Dick to eat the amount he needed to. 

Bruce has one hand under Dick's knees to hold him up, and another at the nape of his neck, holding him in place. He can feel warm huffs of air against his throat. 

Dick hadn't gotten changed before dinner, so he's still in jeans and the Superman jacket he wore. Bruce takes off the jacket, making a note to get him a Batman one soon, and pulls the covers over him. 

He makes sure the nightlight is on and that Zitka the stuffed elephant is beside Dick before he leaves the room, leaving the door slightly ajar so light from the hallway comes through the crack.

4.

“Thanks, Bruce,” Dick says around a mouthful of ice cream. His waffle cone is currently sporting some sort of rainbow coloured concoction that apparently tastes like bubblegum, according to Dick, and is doing a fine job painting his tongue, lips, chin, and the tip of his nose a vivid shade of violet.

Bruce raises an eyebrow, taking a delicate lick of his own cone. “For the ice cream?” Dick’s already thanked him twice for that. 

“For being a good friend,” Dick says earnestly, in that innocent way children have. If someone had told Bruce two years ago that he’d be sitting in the corner of an ice cream parlour eating ice cream with a pre-teen of his own, he would’ve laughed them out of his house, and then followed them later in the night as Batman. “And…”

Bruce peers at the boy to see him scrunching up his face from too large a bite. “Careful,” he says. “Brain freezes are deadly - Alfred will kill me if he realises how many servings you’ve had.”

Dick chews on a bit of the cone to let his mouth recover. “I’m good at keeping secrets,” he says. “Like, you’ve never found my secret pet snail collection.”

“Your what— ”

“So anyway,” Dick says hastily, “I know it’s my second birthday with you and Alfred and I’ve already had that party last night and then that party the night before and now this, and then there’s that special present you got me, and,” he shrugs lightly, “it’s a lot.”

Bruce knows he went a little overboard this year, but he couldn’t help it. The first year had been another period of mourning, even with a small party and presents. This year is different; he's partly making up for the previous, and partly hyping himself up for a month to ask Dick if he wants to be adopted. 

Dick is still talking. Bruce interrupts him. “Dick. What’re you trying to say?”

Dick takes a lungful of air in at the pause in speech. The first time he’d literally ran out of breath speaking had left Bruce amused to no end, but now that it’s a regular occurrence, he can’t help wincing for his lungs. 

“I’m just real happy you’re my friend, and not trying to be a replacement dad,” Dick explains. “Like we talked about.”

Oh. It’s too soon. Bruce nods. “Of course.” 

6.

Bruce does things with Jason he never did with Dick. Dick knows this, because they're always in Gotham's papers. 

Billionaire Takes In Homeless Gotham Orphan

Billionaire Bruce Wayne Seen At Baseball Game With Ward

Wayne Purchases Lolly Store; New Ward Has Brucie Wrapped Around His Finger

Dick hadn't known about Jason until the third headline; he'd gone and dug up others just to confirm the tabloid article he'd spotted while on a jog around the city. 

Dick's first instinct had been to call Alfred, but he didn't know what he'd say. He puts it off, because he's busy, because he's settling into his new apartment, because he's hunting for work, because he's figuring out how to be a solo vigilante now that there's no one watching his back. 

These are all excuses, because the day he sees the headline Robin Returns! with the subheading Robin Spotted After Months Of Absence, he walks straight to his bike and drives to the Manor.

And then he stands outside the gates for a solid ten minutes, because what exactly did he think he was doing? Bruce had taken in another orphan - good for him - and now he’d given said orphan Robin. The words couldn’t have been clearer if Bruce had personally emailed Dick saying ‘hey, I’m replacing you with a younger model’.

Dick had outgrown Robin, but Dick didn’t realise that that meant Bruce would take it upon himself to choose a new one. The thought of that, of a kid who had no idea what the colours were from, what the name meant, burned in the pit of his stomach. 

In the end, he decides to go in for a visit anyway. He hasn’t seen Alfred in much too long. He’ll just pop in through the kitchen entrance and hide his bike in the bushes around the corner, and if Alfred isn’t there Dick will sit at the counter and wait until Alfred appears. Bruce will probably know, because he always knows, but he’s never made an effort to track Dick down when he comes in to see Alfred.

Not that Dick’s come in to see even Alfred since he left.

Alfred’s face isn’t as surprised as Dick thought it was going to be when he pops his head through the door. His face breaks into a smile.

“Master Dick,” he says, and suddenly there’s a rush of homesickness that Dick had thought he’d gotten over.

“Hey, Alf,” Dick says, and wraps his arms around the man’s shoulders. 

When they break apart, Alfred is back to his usual professionalism. “Tea? And I assume you’re staying for lunch, of course.”

Are you here to see Bruce is the hidden question. Dick doesn’t hesitate, but he does regret saying no to what will no doubt be the best meal he would’ve had in months.

“Can’t today, Alfred,” he says, mouth twisting. “But I won’t say no to tea.”

Conversation is easy with Alfred, because Alfred has been there through the good and the bad and the ugly, and unlike Bruce, who’s been there through the same, he actually has emotional intelligence. Dick is fidgety, not because of the topics of conversation, but because each second that passes is another that will no doubt be a second closer to Bruce walking into the room.

Or perhaps Jason.

Dick’s spotted the novel lying on the countertop, bookmarked. He’s seen the sneakers that are lined up by the doorway, the wayward bike helmet that sat in a chair. Jason comes in here, and often. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say if he runs into the kid, who would, in another life, be Dick’s brother.

“It’s unfortunate that Master Bruce was called in for a last minute meeting today and won’t be back until dinner,” Alfred says, taking a sip of tea. He’s looking at Dick in that way of his, hawk-eye precision. Dick isn’t sure whether he’s more relieved at the fact that he won’t be seeing Bruce today or that he didn’t have to ask Alfred about him. “And Master Jason is in school, of course.”

“School, huh,” Dick says. 

He doesn’t see Jason that day. In fact, he doesn’t see Jason at all until he sees Bruce Wayne Adopts Ward in the newstands one smoggy morning. There, in the centre, is a photo of a grinning boy holding a piece of paper with one hand. The other side of the paper is held by Bruce, who’s smiling a Bruce smile.

8.

Dick and Jason had spent the last hour scouring Gotham for the perfect burger.

I can out-eat you, any day, Jason had said. 

Prove it, Dick had retorted. And maybe there was some underlying jealousy and rivalry in both their tones, even Dick's, despite being at least five or six years older than the kid, because he didn't back down, not even after Jason had dragged him to that seedy little corner store.

"This," Dick announces in his go-to restaurant, "is to wash away the taste of whatever the hell you made me eat."

"You wouldn't know fine street cuisine if it slapped you in the face," Jason says. His voice is muffled because of the burger he's currently stuffing his face with, and there's a smudge of sauce on his cheek that's grossing Dick out.

"What, dumpster diving?"

"Hey, don't knock it till you try it."

The knowledge that Jason has had to actually go dumpster diving makes Dick change the subject. By the time it's five in the afternoon and dark outside - aka the end of Jason's time with this impromptu outing with Dick - they've both lost count of how many burgers they've just consumed. Probably because of the milkshake neither of them could finish, despite sharing.

"Should've called a cab." There's a cramping in Dick's gut that had begun two and a half burgers before the fries, and truly sharpened halfway through the milkshake. He wishes he hadn't driven them here on his bike, but there's no way he's leaving it here just because his stomach is having a little trouble digesting all the crap he's just shoved into it. 

Jason eyes him. "You're looking a little green, Dickhead. Maybe I should drive." 

"Yeah, I'll just let the twelve-year-old drive." Dick swallows convulsively. 

Jason glares at him. "If we crash and die 'cause you threw up in your helmet, I'll come back and kill you again."

"I'm fine, kid. And I've driven through worse."

Dick's not lying, but it's not the exact truth either. Because both Nightwing and Robin are given more leeway than Dick the civilian is on the road. It doesn't matter as much if a vigilante swerves and curves and can't stay between the lines because of blood loss.

They're about halfway to the Manor the first time Dick pulls over. He throws off the helmet and retches by the side of the road, a rainbow of barely digested food appearing before him. 

Jason's standing by the bike with his visor down and a bottle of water held out towards Dick when Dick turns around. He takes it and moves a mouthful of water around his mouth before spitting it out. 

"See?" he says to Jason. "No crashing."

"Real grateful I had to watch that instead."

 But there's an odd twist in Jason's mouth and he'd eyeing Dick carefully, and that makes Dick put more effort into smiling. He knocks a shaky knuckle against Jason's helmet, which Jason bats away. 

They have to pull over again five miles later, but this time most of the contents are bile. 

"We should call Bruce," Jason says. "Unless you let me drive back."

"Bruce and Alfred would both kill me and take turns doing so if I let you drive back." Dick's leaning against the bike with the water bottle again, eyes squeezed shut. "So there'd be no point in me making it back alive anyway."

Jason huffs. "You puke one more time and I'm calling."

"Don't think I have anything left to throw up," Dick tells him.

"You kidding? That was only like three out of twelve burgers."

"Don't talk about burgers."

 Dick almost makes it to the Manor without another episode. They had just parked at the front of the main door - Dick didn't use the garage, instead preferring to leave his bike where he could grab it instantly and drive off - when there's a twist in his gut that had become all too familiar.

He scrambles to rip off the helmet with hands that are much weaker than he wants to admit, and only has time to lean over the side of the bike to throw up in the shrubbery beside him. There's nothing but bile now, despite what Jason had said about the burgers. Somewhere beside him, he can hear Jason hollering for Bruce. 

Dick's slumped forward on the bike, breathing in shallowly, when there's a warm hand on his back. 

"C'mon, inside," Bruce says. 

Dick will never admit it, but there's a rush of relief at the sound of his voice. He looks up, and Bruce is hovering on the other side of the bike, while Jason is by the stairs, watching them.

Dick swings his leg over the seat in what would normally be a graceful dismount but today is full of stumbles and miscalculations. Bruce is probably having a coronary holding back the offer to help. He doesn't know what he'll say if Bruce does.

His head is spinning slightly as Dick walks up the stairs, and then he's met with yet another staircase until he's at the bedrooms. 

"You need to install escalators," he tells Bruce.

"And take away your opportunity to slide down the banister?" Bruce responds dryly. 

This exchange is the most normal conversation he and Bruce have had in months, but Dick can already feel the roiling in his stomach and if he keeps talking, he's going to throw up on the stairs. 

With Alfred gone on his trip to Europe, it's left to Jason to find a bucket and grab a packet of saltines.

"I see you two have been gallivanting through Gotham eating whatever takes your fancy," Bruce says. His voice is carefully neutral, but after so long of interpreting what Bruce doesn't say, Dick can read between the lines. And no amount of being sick can stop his feathers being ruffled, apparently.

"I didn't say it like that," Jason says. "More like 'Dickface couldn't hold his seedy Gotham street food'."

"Bucket," Dick gasps.

Instantly, the bucket materialises before him, but he doesn't have time to wonder at Bruce's speed before he's heaving into it. There's nothing left in his stomach, and that's so much worse, because now there's just strings of bile forcing their way out of him. Dick's stomach is clenching as it tries to get rid of whatever the fuck he's eaten, throat burning at the stomach acid making its way up and out.

When he's finished, Dick finds himself kneeling with the bucket in front of him. One of Bruce's hands is on his back and the other is on his forehead holding back the wisps of hair, like he used to do when Dick got sick as a kid.

"Finished?" he asks. Dick nods. "Let's move to the bed, chum."

Dick stands shakily and heads over to the bed. There's a fresh bucket there by his head. 

Bruce presents a glass of saline mixture. "Take small sips of this," he says. "We don't want you throwing up any more than you already have." 

It's not a question, but Dick knows what he's asking. "This is the fifth time, pretty sure."

Bruce glances at Jason, who nods in confirmation from where he's lurking by the door.

Dick refrains from rolling his eyes; it won't do anything good for the room that's already spinning. "I know how many times I've thrown up, B."

There've been massive improvements in medicine since Dick was a kid: the saline now tastes a lot more like lemonade and a lot less like something that belongs in a sewer. He reaches for a cracker, nibbling at it and hoping it'll stop himself from tossing the tiny sips he's just taken. 

Bruce is doing that thing of his that Dick at one point called helicoptering. He puts a plastic liner on the bucket, straightens the tray, disappears for a moment before remerging with a jug of water and glass, and then goes to pull the curtains shut. 

"Leave them," Dick says. He's always liked seeing the open sky; outside the smoggy Gotham air and light pollution, the stars are visible here from the Manor. 

Bruce pauses before opening them back up. He doesn't say the curtains keep the chill out like he might've at one point and Dick's grateful for that because he knows he wouldn't be able to stop himself from snapping something in response. And he's not sure he'd be able to get back to his apartment in one go if they started a fight and he stormed out.

Bruce is now visibly searching for something to say, but Dick's stomach saves him the trouble by letting a momentous heave. 

Dick lunges for the bucket just in time to throw up the quarter of the saltine and glass of saline he's just swallowed. Just like on the bike, Bruce's hand is there on his back, because he knows from experience that it makes Dick feel better, and there's another hand that holds his bangs up off his forehead and conveniently also gives Dick a place to lean his head. 

He remembers throwing up in his apartment late one night after a particularly strong nightmare, knowing that there was no one there to check to make sure he didn’t fall asleep in the bathroom or to bring him a glass of water. 

Beside him, Bruce is on the phone. “Six times now,” he’s saying. There’s a tightness to his voice that Dick associates with Bruce being stressed. “He hasn’t thrown up anything substantial since he got back.”

There’s a brief pause before Bruce holds out the phone. Dick grabs it with fingers that are much more stable than he’d anticipated. 

“Dick,” Leslie's voice sounds. “What you’ve got is a typical case of food poisoning which is probably coupled with a new virus that's been making its way through Gotham. Everyone who's come in lately has the same symptoms, minus the burgers.”

Dick laughs a little. “Don't say the 'b' word.”

“Now what you need to do is take the pills Bruce gives you and try to get fluids to stay in your body, okay?”

Dick shifts into a more comfortable position. Bruce has disappeared into the bathroom with the bucket, yet to emerge. “Why are you telling me this? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but usually...”

“We thought you'd like to know the whole picture.” As opposed to Bruce shoving medication down your throat with no explanation, goes unsaid. 

Maybe Bruce is learning, too.

Leslie hangs up after a few more words, and Dick places Bruce’s phone on the nightstand. He’s too worn out to get up, but at the same time he doesn’t want to sleep yet. He falls asleep anyway.

When Dick wakes up again, it’s because of a stabbing pain in his stomach and the knowledge that if he doesn’t move now, the bedsheets will need to be changed. Leaning over the side, he grabs onto the bucket just in time. 

There’s a flurry of movement as he’s throwing up. His door, which had been ajar, flies open, and a harried Bruce rushes in. Behind him, but slower, is a shadow holding a tray. Jason. He places the tray on one of the many tiny tables Dick’s room has and then slips out the door. Dick doesn’t blame him. 

Dick doesn’t feel much of anything beyond wanting this infernal vomiting to stop. He thinks he says as much aloud, because Bruce’s hand starts stroking through his hair.

“I know, kiddo,” he says helplessly. 

And then there’s a splatter of something in the bucket that Dick knows all too well. 

Bruce doesn’t make a sound, but his grip on Dick’s shoulder tightens and the hand in his hair disappears.

“Leslie,” Dick hears a moment later. “No, it’s still going. There's blood mixed in it now.” 

Bruce’s voice is strained in a way Dick doesn’t ever recall hearing it. He carefully files it away in his mental notes, because it’s Robin’s job to—

Well. Even if it isn’t his job anymore, it’s not like Nightwing never works with Batman. 

“Okay,” Bruce says finally, before hanging up. He turns to Dick, who’s slumped back into the pillows and is wondering whether the tang of blood coating his mouth is worse than the taste of vomit. 

“What’d Leslie say?” 

“You've most likely shredded your throat from the vomiting, and it’s nothing to worry about. And that I should’ve woken you to give you these.” He hands Dick a pill and glass of water.

“The ones Leslie said will stop me throwing up?” Dick downs it anyway, because apparently this sick version of himself is much more willing to blindly follow Bruce.

Bruce nods. Dick expects him to stand, to head back to whatever he was doing before he came in, but instead Bruce grabs the bucket and heads into the bathroom to change the lining. And when he comes back out he’s settles into the chair in the corner of the room.

“Sleep,” he says. 

Dick is probably imagining the hand working through the tangles in his hair when he drifts off. 

9.

It's one of those rare days out that Bruce doesn't really do anymore. It's as though Gotham acknowledged this, and decided to be sunny for them. 

Family outing, Dick had called it. It's a week from his birthday, so Bruce is considering this to be part of his birthday present, because Dick's much more difficult to buy for than he'd been when he'd been a child and only wanted for the new Superman toy, a better bike.

They're in the park, on a plaid picnic blanket with a wicker basket in the middle, packed by Alfred. Families are spread out in the shade just like them, and Bruce knows that a photo of him with his boys are going to be in the paper tomorrow.

Well, not his boys. Dick he might consider his son, but Tim has his own father, even if Bruce despises Jack Drake and his parenting. 

He ignores the Jason shaped hole in this scene. How often had he thought about what it might be like if Dick and Jason got along like he and Tim did? 

"B, watch this!" 

At some point, Dick had practically conditioned Bruce so that his heart rate spiked at those words. Bruce turns towards the voice, peering up into the tree they were under to see Dick swinging upside down, hanging onto a branch with his legs.

As Bruce watches, he flings himself off the branch and conducts a series of twists before landing in front of Bruce, bowing with a flourish.

Bruce claps slowly. "Marvellous," he says dryly. "The rest of the park think so too." 

It isn't a complete exaggeration. There are a few kids staring at Dick in awe, but at least no one's coming over to ask him to teach them.

"Whoa," Tim says from his own vantage point on the tree. "Can you teach me that?"

Dick beams. "Sure," he says. "Okay, first we gotta--"

"Boys," Bruce says a little desperately, trying to keep the situation from getting out of hand. "We need to finish the ice cream before it melts and ruins the basket."

"Don't worry, Timbo," Dick reassures him. "I'll run you through it once we get home."

Tim's returning grin is just as bright as Dick's.

Now Bruce has to dish out the remaining tub of ice cream, and maybe he didn't think this thing through, because if there's one thing he's learned over the years, it's how sugar highs make his life a living hell, especially when Dick's promised Tim to teach him new tricks.

"Hey, Bruce, did we bring the rice for the ducks?" Tim asks. His tongue is blue from the ice cream. Bruce doesn't know why they bought this particular flavour - Smurf - because it tastes like blueberry, and Bruce doesn't think anyone likes blueberry, but apparently these two will consume anything in the name of ice cream. 

He nods in response to Tim's question. "Alfred put it into three containers."

"Aw, does Alfred think I'll fight Tim over rice?"

Tim snorts. "Alfred remembers that time with the popcorn."

Bruce… Bruce doesn't know what event they're referring to, and that knowledge strikes him harder than he'd anticipated. It's a good thing that Dick and Tim are spending time together outside of their night activities. And Bruce is busy. He doesn't have the time he used to.

He wonders if lying to himself will get any easier over time.

Dick scrapes the last of the blue concoction into his mouth, lips containing a bluish tinge that makes him look hypothermic. His tongue is also blue. He sticks it out. "Hey, is my tongue blue?"

"Yes," Bruce tells him.

Tim sticks his out too, trying to get a look at it. "Is mine?" he asks. As he says it with his tongue still out, it comes out sounding like 'ith mime?'.

"Yes," Bruce says again. "You both have blue tongues."

"Is yours?" Tim asks. 

"I am not sticking my tongue out." Two pairs of beseeching eyes has him consenting to opening his mouth and sticking his probably blue tongue out in broad daylight. The society pages will probably run headlines along the lines of "Billionaire's Sons Have Him Wrapped Around His Fingers" with a picture of how they hoot and cheer. 

Tim isn't your son, Bruce reminds himself again. 

Dick rises with a stretch and brushes crumbs off his lap. "C'mon, we want to get there before the ducks get full from everyone else."

Bruce snorts. "I doubt that'll happen." The ducks are bottomless pits.

Dick tugs up Tim, and Bruce pushes himself to standing before Dick can offer the same to him. They make their way to the water's edge with their basket and blanket packed - it's still Gotham, after all. It's sparkling today under the bright sun, a rarity. 

Bruce stands there holding a box of leftover rice as Tim and Dick take handfuls and toss them at the awaiting masses. There's now a half-circle of ducks around the grassy bank. 

Dick tugs down Bruce, and now they're all sitting in the grass with the box in Bruce's lap. There's something oddly calming about throwing bits of rice at the ducks. 

Tim and Dick have both taken off their shoes and are dipping their feet in the water. Bruce doesn't tell them just what is in this lake even as he grimaces as a kick sends water flying towards him; they know as well as he does exactly what's between their toes.

"Here," Bruce says. "Last round." 

He holds out the box to Tim, who grabs about half, and then to Dick. Dick grabs half of that, leaving some for Bruce, but Bruce shakes the box at him again, telling him to finish it off.

"Aw, thanks, dad," Dick says, with that grin of his that means he's being facetious, and Bruce nearly has a heart attack.

The thing is, Dick has never outright called Bruce dad before. He's referred to him as his father, as his parental figure, as a great many other things that are similar, but never this. Dick doesn't even seem to notice he said it.

Bruce, though, hopes he's hidden the hitch in his breath well enough. He's glad both the boys are focused on the ducks and not on him and his traitor of a heart.

11.

“So, adopted life,” Barbara says. “How does it feel?”

“The cake’s great,” Tim says around a mouthful. He swallows it down painfully when he sees Alfred whirl around at the lack of manners. “Other than that, everything’s the same, really. Except the inheritance.”

“Just like Bruce to give us another reason to kill him,” Jason says.

“What, your trust fund not enough?” Dick says.

“Can you even access that anymore?” Steph sits onto the sofa with a bounce, sending crumbs flying.

Jason looks uncomfortable, but only for a second. It’s still enough to make Damian squint at him suspiciously.

“Todd,” he says, his hold on the knife changing subtly, “do you mean to tell me—”

“Jay got legally resurrected?” Dick says. “When?”

If Jason was uncomfortable before, it’s nothing compared to how he looks now. “Bruce is still working with some lawyers to make it happen,” he says. “But,” he adds at Steph’s cry of party!, “no party. I don’t want the media suddenly hounding me. In fact, the longer we can keep this under wraps, the better.” 

“That’s not going to happen, but no party,” Dick says easily. “We still get cake, though.”

“I refuse to accept you into the family without cake,” Damian chimes in.

Steph snorts. “Bet you didn’t think you’d have to share Bruce’s money with so many people when you heard your dad’s a billionaire.”

Damian sniffs. “I have contingency plans laid out if I’m ever in need of money after my inheritance.”

“What, killing the rest of us?” Tim says. At Damian’s indignant stare, he laughs. 

“I never said my contingency plans involved murder, Drake.”

“Wayne now, actually,” Tim says a little smugly. The tips of his ears are slightly red.

“So are you guys actually hyphenating?” Steph asks, looking at Cass first and then Tim.

Cass shakes her head. “Only Wayne,” she says. So far she’s been content to sit there quietly, perching on the sofa handle beside Jason and occasionally stealing bits from his plate. Because it’s Cass, and her toes are pressed into the side of his stomach as a reminder that they’re there, he says nothing.

“I’m hyphenating,” Tim says.

Jason sticks out a fist. “You’re a real rich brat now.”

Tim taps it back with his own fisted hand, face somewhat slack at Jason of all people openly accepting him like this.

There is a little pause and Dick looks up from where he's scraping the last of the icing on his plate into his mouth to see pairs of eyes staring at him expectedly. “What?”

“Did you hyphenate?” Steph asks.

Dick barks a laugh, because of course it's a joke, but it tapers off when the rest of them don’t join in. “Guys,” he says. “I’m not adopted.”

There’s a second of further silence before the wave of voices crashes through.

“What?”

“Bruce never adopted you—?”

“Wait, does Dick still get inheritance money—”

Dick hadn’t realised they’d all thought he’d been adopted, but he supposes he’d always been part of the duo (trio?) that was Alfred and Bruce in the Manor when they’d all come, even if he hadn’t been present. He was mildly alarmed, not to say amused, at their shouts.

“I didn’t want to be adopted at first,” he said with a shrug, “and then I moved out. And it’s far too late now – I'm like thirty. I don’t need to be adopted, in any case.” When this didn’t appease his younger siblings – Barbara had wheeled away at some point in the commotion to get some water – he added, “Quit it with the staring. You lot are giving B a run for his money.” 

“Given Father’s track record, adulthood won’t stop him from adopting you,” Damian says. It’s still in his haughty voice – the one he uses when Tim’s around – but it’s rather obvious that he means what he says.

"But your Wiki page says you are," Tim says.

Dick rolled his eyes skyward. Were they reassuring him now? It was funny, but also rather sad. He hoped they only saw the humour in it. "They probably assumed I got adopted at some point, seeing how I stuck around after turning eighteen." 

“You’re, like, his favourite,” Jason says. He shoves a cracker into his mouth and speaks around it. “He’s just too emotionally constipated to ask at this point. Just bring him the papers to be signed and he’ll do it in a heartbeat. Hell, bring them when I have to sign mine. We can get hand cramps together. Bonding and all that shit.”

Dick’s mouth twists sourly. “I’m not asking him that.”

“Do you want it?” Cass asks, perhaps the most important question.

Damian looks on with interest, as does Tim, but Jason’s frown hasn’t disappeared. Dick hesitates, knowing that Damian would take a ‘no’ too personally – hell, after all he’d done to try and make this a family, Damian wouldn’t be the only one – but he’s unable to say that yes, he wants to be adopted, has wanted it since Jason had been adopted and he’d realised that it’d been an actual possibility, that Bruce could’ve adopted him at any point and had actively decided not to. But this is ridiculous. He’s almost thirty, for God’s sake. He doesn’t want to see the looks of sympathy – or worse, pity – in their faces.

Dick sighs. “Look,” he says. “I don’t need a piece of paper telling me who my family is. I’ve lived without being an official Wayne this long. It’s not gonna change anything, not really.”

“Except maybe your inheritance,” Steph chimes in.

Dick’s relieved at the change of topic, and hopes fervently that his face doesn’t show it as transparently as he thinks it might. Barbara, conveniently, comes up to them at that moment, leaving no room for the conversation to return to Dick’s lack of adoption.

“Alfred’s calling everyone over for a photo,” she says. “Last one there’s gotta kneel.”

There’s a mad dash, even when most of them know they’re being sent away. Dick smiles at Barbara gratefully, knowing she’d picked up on his discomfort at the conversation. Part of it was because she’d been one of the few confidants he’d discussed, however sparsely, his feels of being adopted with, and partly because she was a good friend like that.

“It’s not too late, y’know,” she says quietly. “There's paperwork and everything for adults. And you know B loves you.”

Dick lets out a breath. “C’mon, or I’ll be the one kneeling.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to be adopted,” Bruce says haltingly. It’s a far cry from what his Batman voice had sounded like only seconds ago.

He and Dick were the last two in the Cave – Damian had been sent to bed early, Tim and Cass had left to go back to Tim’s apartment not long after, and Alfred had invited Jason to have tea with him. It’d been a quiet night.

Dick huffs, a sound oddly reminiscent of his teenage years. “You were listening in at the party.”

Bruce could lie, but he’s already on unstable territory as it is. He’d been here before, and it hadn’t gone anything like he’d planned and he’d lost a lot of his nerve with bringing up anything to do with adoption with Dick ever since. He’d never tried, always drawing up papers before something or another stopped him from asking.

They had all been excuses, he knows. Because Dick had so boldly told him, that first time, that he was glad that Bruce wasn’t trying to replace his father, and he’d left so easily as though it was nothing. Bruce knows it’s ridiculous, because of course Dick would accept it happily – Dick had been the one to make this into a family. These were old hurts talking, things they'd moved past.

But logic doesn’t mean a thing to the pounding of his heart. He doesn't know why this conversation is so difficult - he's already had it with his four other kids. 

“Dick,” he begins. All the variations of speeches he’d had outlined in his head flies out.

“Bruce, it’s fine,” Dick interrupts, with a wan smile on his face. He still isn’t looking at Bruce, and begins swinging back and forth on the bars. “I’m almost thirty. I meant what I said – it's not going to change things between us, and I’m far too old to be adopted now.”

But the situation had changed, Bruce knows. Maybe Dick would’ve been fine with it if this conversation had never taken place, but if Bruce decides to leave it alone now, it would shift something in their relationship.

He remembers the whirring of his brain as he'd listened to the kids talk at the party, the realisation that he'd waited too long and that it was time to rectify this. And so, immediately afterwards, he’d gone straight to his study and emerged from a quick call with yet another set of adoption papers.

They’re what Bruce grasps at now, trying his damnedest not to crinkle the manila folder. 

"I don't care how old you are," he begins. “If you want to be adopted, I’ll make it happen.”

These had not been the right words. He realises that the second they’re out of his mouth, because something flashes across Dick’s face and it’s not happiness or unbridled joy. He drops down from the bars.

“Y’know,” Dick says, in that tone of his that Bruce had almost forgotten, the one that was purely teenager, “I always fill in the blanks for you. I know, B. You don’t have to say it, B. I love you too, B. But sometimes," he snatches up the keys to his bike from where they sit on the desk, "it'd fucking help to know that I'm not just a damn echo in a cave. Sometimes you have to actually say it."

And with that, he leaves. Bruce stares after him, feeling that same clenching in his stomach that he's felt countless times before.

"Dude, what the fuck?" 

Bruce doesn't jump, but it's a near thing. "Jason," he says. His voice is doing much better than his face probably is; he's lucky his back is to the entrance.

"And me," Tim's voice chirps up.

Bruce refrains from sighing. Instead, he walks to the Batcomputer and sits down, pulling up the files he's been working on. 

"Are you serious right now?" Jason asks incredulously. "You're just gonna sit there?"

Bruce finally turns around. "What would you have me do, exactly?" He thinks they're grateful that he isn't pretending that the last ten minutes didn't just happen, that he isn't pretending they don't know what he just failed to do.

"Go to Bludhaven, or wherever the fuck he's just stormed off to." Bruce hadn't expected this level of vehemence from Jason, of all people.

"B, c'mon," Tim tries. "You just have to say it like you're talking to a human, not a business partner, or like you're doing this out of obligation or something."

"Yeah, I would've punched you in the face if you'd tried to adopt me by saying that ."

Tim opens his mouth, then pauses. "Wait," he says. "You realise where you went wrong, right?" When Bruce doesn't move, he continues, in a prompting sort of tone, "The part where you basically said 'oh, you want a toy, too? I'll pay for one delivered to your door at the earliest convenience.'?"

Bruce gives in and sighs. "It doesn't matter anymore. And the two of you will be benched by Alfred if he sees you in the Cave after that third warning."

"We'll come with," Tim says. "I left my favourite socks there, anyway."

Which is how Bruce finds himself in Dick's absolute mess of an apartment, with Tim and Jason taking it upon themselves to raid Dick's fridge because they missed Alfred's post patrol snacks.

Dick isn't there. Bruce carefully doesn't note that it's been two hours since Dick stormed out - the drive from Gotham is only an hour and a half minutes. 

After they've been at the apartment for three hours, with no sign of Dick, the boys have begun going through his gaming system (the one Tim installed that mainly Damian uses anymore) and Bruce is stress cleaning, a new low that he didn't know he had in him.

He starts with the dishes, which are in truly horrendous shape in the sink. It seems that once Dick ran out of plates and bowls, he began ordering take out instead of washing up. Bruce wonders momentarily whether the apartment has ever seen a vacuum cleaner, before remembering the Hoover that Alfred had gifted as a very passive aggressive housewarming present.

Then it's folding the laundry that's in a pile on the lone chair in Dick's bedroom. Bruce systematically organises the piles based on clothing type, then colour, separating the ones that need to be washed and the ones that really need to be washed. He hopes there are no clean clothes because they're all in the dresser, or perhaps the Manor. 

The boys are playing Mario Kart when Bruce leaves the bedroom and sits back on the couch. The yellow envelope sits on the cardboard box turned coffee table like a giant elephant in the room, and Bruce swears his heartbeat spikes every time he catches a glimpse of it. 

"Want a turn?" Tim practically shoves the console into his hands and heads back to the kitchen.

Bruce peers at the screen. He hasn't played Mario Kart in a very long time.

"Rainbow Road, old man?" Jason asks. He'd normally have his feet up on the coffee table, but he appears just as skeptical of Dick's table as Bruce is. 

"Let me warm up first," Bruce says. Tim eggs them both on while he munches around Dick's last box of cereal that he's mixed into canned peaches.

Bruce easily loses track of how many rounds they play, but a glance at the clock tells him that they've been in the apartment for six hours. He wills himself not to jump to conclusions - just because Dick had left the Cave almost seven hours ago and hasn't arrived home yet doesn't mean he's had an accident and is lying in a ditch somewhere; he's probably blowing off steam.

It's nearing the eighth hour and Bruce has messaged Alfred and called Damian to let them know where he and the boys are and Tim and Jason have eaten Dick out of house and home by the time the lock on the door turns. 

Bruce's hands turn clammy instantly, blood pumping overtime.

Dick is stifling a yawn when he shuts the door, and now Bruce's new worry is that he was driving his bike while half asleep. He pauses at the sight of all the pairs of shoes next to his, and then sighs in resignation as he tosses his keys onto the kitchen benchtop.

"When did you guys get here?" he asks, heading into the kitchen without a glance towards the three of them. 

"Like, right after you left," Jason says, now playing against the computer.

"We finished all your food, by the way. There's a handful of Froot Loops left, though. We didn't touch that monstrosity," Tim says, tapping away on Dick's laptop.

Dick grumbles something under his breath before pouring a glass of water from the tap. He drinks it all in one go. And then he places it a little too carefully next to the sink.

"Guys," he says. "Space?"

Tim and Jason apparently know exactly what he wants, because they both suddenly stand and leave the apartment, Tim giving Bruce a meaningful look that Bruce is supposed to interpret while Jason glares at him. Bruce understands, though. They've dragged him here out of his comfort zone because he needed a shove, but now he has to do his job. 

"They didn't need to make you come all the way out here," Dick starts off once the boys have left. His voice is light; this could be any morning where Bruce surprised him with a visit. "I would've been back in time for patrol tonight." Then he ducks his head and huffs a little. "I shouldn't've demanded something like that from you. Of course I wa—"

Bruce lets out a breath. He interrupts Dick before he can say something like 'of course I accept' in the face of his terrible, stumbling offer. "No, they were right to, and you're right to." His throat is dry; when was the last time he had a glass of water? "I should've come of my own accord."

"B—"

"Sit," Bruce interrupts, but then winces inwardly and adds, "please." 

Dick's mouth quirks up in the shadow of a knowing smile and he complies, sitting next to Bruce. 

Bruce wordlessly hands over the manila folder, watching as Dick opens it.  They both know what's in it, but Dick's hands still freeze when he pulls out the forms. He carefully places the half open folder back on the table and works his hands under his thighs to stop himself from fidgeting.

"Let me get this out before you say anything," Bruce tells him. He turns so he's facing Dick. Dick's face is very openly surprised - he clearly hadn't been expecting Bruce to have papers ready, for Bruce to even come to his apartment. "This isn't the first time I've had adoption papers drawn up for you."

If Dick had been surprised before, it's nothing compared to how he looks now. 

"My lawyers drew them up by the time you'd spent six months in the Manor, probably when they realised I hadn't taken you in on a whim. I didn't touch them till your second birthday with us. I'd planned to present them to you after dinner, but then you told me you were glad I wasn't replacing your father, that I was keeping my promise, so I put them away. That was the closest I ever got to asking you."

"Bruce…" Dick shakes his head a little. "I—I was a kid then, when we made that pact. You know how I see things now. I know seeing you as my dad isn't going to replace my dad." He's chewing on his lip like there's no tomorrow.

"You don't have to explain it to me, Dick. I understand." 

This next part is the most difficult, because now Bruce will have to tell Dick how he feels , and he's absolutely horrific at it. Mortifying ordeal of being known and all that. 

“I put a lot on you,” Bruce begins, “because I know you can handle it. I've watched you grow from a child to a man, and I like to think I had some hand in shaping the person you've grown to be, but I know that more than that I have you to thank for the person I am, all the good parts. I took you in when I was in a dark place, and it might not have been the best decision for you - I think about that a lot, how you might've fared better had I just ensured you went to a good foster home, if you'd never become Robin - but I was in a dark place and you pulled me out, and I…"

Bruce doesn't know how to say all that he wants to - needs to. But Dick leans forward and grabs him in a hug at that moment, arms tight around Bruce's waist and head buried in his shoulder. 

"You don't have to say anything, B," he murmurs thickly. "Of course I know."

"It bears saying at least once." Bruce rubs his back once before shifting back, because as much as he appreciates the hug he'd rather see Dick's face for this conversation. 

Dick retreats just as fast as he'd leapt forward, rubbing a hand down his face.

"You were right when you said you always fill in the blanks for me. You've made my job easier, as both a vigilante and a father, because you've always been there picking up the slack. You made it possible for me to take in the rest of the kids, to build this family we have now. You must know, how proud I am of you, how much I love you."

Dick's blinking rapidly now. "God, you've really gone there and made me cry," he says, laughing a little. It comes out wetly; Bruce plucks a tissue from the box on the 'coffee table' and hands it to him. 

"I should've made things official and adopted you years ago," Bruce confesses. "But I hope you'll agree to it now, even if I'm a little late."

Dick doesn't say anything, only nods his head and grabs at the papers. Bruce produces a pen, which Dick takes even as he swipes at his face with his sleeve.

The second the pen is placed down, Dick's door flies and in fly Steph and Tim, followed by Jason, Damian, and Cass. Barbara wheels herself in after them, and Alfred is there at the end to close the door. Steph holds a cake box in her hand, and Tim aims a camera at Dick and Bruce still sitting on the couch.

"No," Dick draws the word out, protesting half-heartedly. "My face is all blotchy."

It's true that Dick is an ugly crier, but Bruce knows that the rest of his children think it's to balance him out because "no one person should be fucking perfect, Dickface - serves ya right for having dimples". 

Bruce carefully picks up the forms that officially tie Dick to him, and tugs Dick towards him. "Tim," he calls, and Tim turns to them with a wide grin.

The camera flashes, and then there's a loud flurry as the rest of the room fights for the best spot in the group photo.