There was no way this night could get longer. But obviously life found a way. Jason was slumped against Dick’s bathroom door.
“Dick, just open the door and you’ll be out.”
A muffled “I can’t” was all Jason could hear in response.
It was currently 3:42 am and they were tired. Tim was wrestling Damian so that they didn’t have to replace another door because of him kicking it down.
With all the commotion, Bruce and Alfred were now coming into the room.
“What on earth is going on!?” Asked Alfred as he separated Tim and Damian.
Jason turned towards Bruce. “Well, Dickhead managed to get himself locked in the bathroom and he can’t turn the lock because he’s too out of it from the concussion.”
Bruce immediately went past him and lightly knocked on the bathroom. “Dick, can you open the door?”
“Bruce?”
“Yeah its me. Can you open the door, please?”
He could hear Dick’s uneven breath through the door. “No, it’s not working.”
“Okay.” Bruce turned towards Alfred. “Can you get the key?”
Tim gaped at Bruce. “Wait, you had keys for the door!?”
“Yeah but only Alfred knows where they are. He hid it from me when I tried to lock myself in my room when I was younger.”
Alfred came back in the room and unlocked the door. Turning the knob, Dick rolled out and was sprawled out on the floor now. The tear tracks on his face was noticeable. Damian was already on the floor next to him.
Bruce looked down at Dick. “Are you okay?”
“The lotion held me hostage.”
“What?”
“I had lotion on my hands and it didn’t let me open the door.”
Tim threw his hands into the air. “Oh my god. I can’t deal with this.”
Jason just shrugged. “Well its hard to open the door with lotion on your hands.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just…go to bed.”
Life found a way to make the night longer. Even if it was through lotion.
so, I tend to HC Bruce as being 24/25 and having been Batman for literally a year when he adopts his first kid, because. you know. Dick was literally introduced to comics the year after Bruce. that’s just meta canon.
so we have this emotionally stunted 20-something who’s currently navigating how best to fight crime while dressed up as a bat meeting another orphan and deciding “oh, shit, I should do the noble thing and adopt him. what’s the worst that could happen?”
so much
once all the excitement of catching the peeps who killed Dick’s parents wore off it gradually dawned on Bruce that he was now responsible for a whole ass human child living in his fancy house
there’s this, like, grieving but shockingly well adjusted and sociable pre-pubescent boy doing cartwheels up and down the halls, breaking the antiques, and gradually it hits Bruce that this kid is going to need, like. outlets for all that energy. and kids his own age. school? probably school.
(Alfred home schooled Bruce from the age of 8 until college – and yes, I have a LOT of feelings about Bruce Wayne’s college years – so he’s a little out of his depth here)
emotionally stunted manchild with no real friends Bruce Wayne listening with an increasingly furrowed brow as young Dick Grayson cheerfully chats about his favorite classes and which of his classmates he gets along with and the birthday party he got invited to and which teacher was mean. Bruce realizing that this child is going to be so, so much healthier than he is and almost choking because he is absolutely terrified of fucking that up.
picture: 25 year old Bruce Wayne, still perfecting his idiot billionaire act, sitting in a parent teacher conference with an increasingly flustered teacher. (flustered because Bruce is hot? because he’s weird? you decide!)
honestly what would feed that harmless idiot playboy image better than spontaneously adopting a little circus boy and bringing him along to inappropriate places like Wayne Industries board meetings or fancy formal dinners?
they absolutely have system worked out where Bruce makes a certain very small gesture and Dick immediately causes a disruption, such as:
[mid-board meeting] “oh I’m so sorry, gentlemen, I’d love to keep talking about these numbers for another hours but as you can see, I’m sure, my young ward is doing a handstand on a rolling chair and we really need to have a word about that”
[at a fancy dinner] “goodness gracious I wish that I could keep talking about this very interesting socialite gossip but it seems that my young ward has just knocked over quite a large number of champagne glasses and I must go tend to him”
once they’ve ducked out of this latest obligation Dick asks which bad guy they’re rushing off to fight. sometimes there isn’t one and Bruce was just shamelessly using the child as an excuse to leave something extremely tedious.
what do kids eat? Bruce has no idea, having spent a quarter of a century mostly eating whatever Alfred put in front of him. conversely, little Dick has never been allowed to go ham and get whatever he wants in a grocery store before. suddenly Wayne Manor’s cupboards are overflowing with frozen pizza and poptarts and sugary cereals.
food is basically an afterthought to Bruce, who is actually delighted that calories and sugars are now so readily available in quick and easily consumed packages.
I implore you to imagine Bruce and Dick in full costume sitting on the kitchen counter eating cold slices of pizza and handfuls of dry cap’n crunch for breakfast after a particularly hellacious night
actually if you can draw I implore you to do that too
I keep thinking of the Stranger Things directors talking about how working with kids is weird because sometimes they just show up covered in glitter or red in the face because they’ve been slapping each other? sometimes Robin goes radio silent on stakeouts and Bruce panics and goes looking for him, only to discover Dick found a stray dog or he’s perched outside someone’s window watching their TV because a movie he likes is on or he’s staring in the windows of a candy store.
the first time Bruce Wayne realized Dick had fallen asleep in the passenger seat of the Batmobile and he had to awkwardly lift him out and carry him to bed was an Experience
Bruce and Alfred methodically “babyproofing” the manor before Dick’s first birthday with them so that he can invite friends over without having to worry about them finding the cave
Dick realized pretty fast that Bruce doesn’t have any concept of how money works and that he’ll hand over 200 dollars for a night at the movies without even questioning it. Alfred had to step in and tactfully course correct on this one
for the record, Bruce never actually stops doing it. to this day, any one of his kids could ask for his credit card (the Batcredit card, Steph insists on calling it) and be given it without argument. does Bruce trust his kids? does he just not give a single solitary shit about money? you decide!
Dick is easy to travel with, even internationally – he got plenty of that in the circus, and he knows when to just sit down and take a nap. but he’s not accustomed at all to the kinds of places where Bruce stays. you know the opening of Spider-Man: Homecoming where Peter is losing his mind and jumping all over his hotel bed? it’s a little like that, with a side of Dick trying to drag Bruce off to look at everything that looks even remotely interesting.
at some point Bruce and Dick inevitably got into an argument and as it was getting heated Bruce said “don’t make me ground you!” and Dick shot back “you can’t ground me!” and their fight came to a SCREECHING stop as they both stared at each other and tried to do the mental math to figure out if Bruce actually could effectively ground Dick or not. like, he can say it all he wants, but will Dick respect his authority and listen?
neither of them knows the answer
they don’t want to know the answer
“well, don’t make me then,” Bruce grumps, before twirling his cape dramatically and storming off to cover his parental panic.
as the weeks and months and years go by Bruce starts getting better at remembering all the little nuances of Dick’s social life outside their vigilantism. there’s a tiny segment of his methodical brain dedicated to it, tucked away behind all the knowledge of combat and crime solving techniques, a mental map complete with figurative yearn connecting the different pictures and snippets of information. when Dick talks about the Titans, his school friends, teachers, Bruce knows exactly who he means. he just wishes he had better advice to offer. he wishes he was better at showing Dick that he cares about all of his life, not just what they do as Batman and Robin. he wishes that Dick wasn’t so perceptive, because after a while Dick realizes that Bruce is out of his league with personal stuff and stops sharing so much.
when he looks back at all the bumps of figuring out his first kid, what Bruce remembers most is how much Dick wanted to talk to him about ordinary things. none of the others do that; they’re old enough to know – or think they know – that Bruce isn’t a guy you talk to about college applications or crushes. he never gets to hear about their day-to-day. he misses it.
‘I implore you to imagine Bruce and Dick in full costume sitting on the kitchen counter eating cold slices of pizza and handfuls of dry cap’n crunch for breakfast after a particularly hellacious night
actually if you can draw I implore you to do that too’
I decided to capture the BatSnack™
dami is a hello kitty fan trust me i kno
of course alfred is over dramatic– where do you think brucie got it from
What up it’s ya girl lemonadegarden and I’m here with some Bruce and Alfred angst enjoy ❤
Bruce woke up feeling sick.
That was normal. He had been expecting it, really.
He rose slowly, wincing and making his way to the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. A bleary-eyed, pale man looked back. He sighed, scrubbed at his face, and went back to bed.
He woke up again, sometime around late afternoon, judging by the light in the room. He was feeling distinctly worse.
Alfred was sitting by the bed, reading a book.
Bruce groaned something incoherent.
“Quite, master Bruce.” Alfred said, calmly flipping to the next page.
Bruce groaned again, and turned over. “I think I’m sick.” He said. His chest felt tight.
“Really,” Alfred said dryly, but the hand placed on his forehead was cool and comforting. Bruce closed his eyes against it. Something about it made Bruce think of when he was little, and he’d get sick and stay home from school. Alfred would take care of him and make him drink soup.
“You have a fever,” Alfred said, his voice soft.
“I know,” Bruce said, turning his face into the pillow. He was sweating. “It was the fear toxin, from yesterday night. Side effects.”
The effects of the fear toxin were usually nullified by the antidote that he administered to himself, but there were often lingering effects. Like high fever.
“Ah,” Alfred said. “I’ll fetch some medicine.” He said, and started to rise from the chair.
Something caught in Bruce’s throat at that. Something strange. A ragged shard of panic. “Alfred,” he croaked. “Don’t– just– just stay. Okay?”
He was shivering. Shivering and sweating. For some reason he couldn’t get memory of him being a sick child out of his head. A child. His parents. Dying in a gutter in front of him. His chest was feeling tighter still.
“Bruce,” Alfred said quietly, and he never called him that, never called him just Bruce. “Are you sure the effects of the fear toxin are gone?”
Bruce shook his head against the pillow. “I’m sick.” He said. “Can’t get up.”
“Can you move?” Alfred said.
Bruce tried. He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Alfred was quiet. “I’m not leaving you, master Bruce,” he said finally. “But I must go down to the cave and fetch a syringe and a few milligrammes of the antidote. There is no one else in the manor at present. I must go, or you won’t get better. Do you understand?”
Bruce shook his head. He realised he was curled up in the very middle of the bed. He was a scared boy again, and Alfred had just brought him back to the manor from the police precinct, and was trying to explain the concept of death to him.
“But Alfred,” he was saying, his face wet with old tears, and he was curled up in bed, and Alfred was smoothing his hair back from his head. “Are they in heaven?”
“Yes,” Alfred said, and then he hugged him. Alfred never hugged.
“Master Wayne,” Alfred was saying. Bruce forced open his eyes.
“Take a deep breath,” Alfred said, and Bruce did. “there you go. Good.”
Bruce kept taking deep breaths. Alfred rose and quickly left the room. Bruce’s breaths became harder.
He closed his eyes again.
He was fourteen, and he’d been suspended from school for picking a fight. He had a busted lip and and a black eye, and Alfred was silent the entire drive back home.
Bruce crossed his arms, looking out of the window defiantly. Whatever Al was gonna say, he didn’t want to hear it.
“Your parents’ death was not your fault,” Alfred said, all of a sudden, when they were nearing the driveway.
Bruce looked at him, too surprised to be angry any longer. “What?”
“You did not fail your parents by not taking action in that alley. Trying to rectify wrongs that you never made won’t work out in your favour, master Bruce.”
“I didn’t–”
“The bully you fought with. Was he picking on you, or someone you felt the urge to protect?” Alfred said. Bruce frowned, and looked out the window again.
“I thought so.” Alfred murmured. “You are not the sworn protector of the entire world, master Bruce.”
“Al–”
“And next time, be smarter about it.” Alfred said. “May I recommend actually learning how to fight.”
“Al!” Bruce yelped, and Alfred’s mouth twitched up ever so slightly.
A prick of a needle slipping into his vein. Bruce sighed.
“Give it a minute.” Alfred was saying, his voice somewhere far away. No, that couldn’t be right. He was right here. Right here.
“Alfred,” Bruce said, blinking open his eyes and waiting for his vision to focus.
“Mm.” Alfred said. He was hooking up Bruce with some kind of IV.
“I’m sorry I got suspended.” He said.
The hands hooking up the IV paused. “That was twenty six years ago, master Wayne.”
“I know,” Bruce rasped, his throat still dry. “But I never said sorry.”
Alfred sat down beside Bruce on the bed.
“Apology accepted.” He said, sounding amused.
Bruce sniffled. He was a little child, barely six, sick with the flu, and Alfred was spooning soup into his mouth.
Alfred,” Bruce said, hesitantly.
“Yes?”
“Can I– may I have some soup.”
“Of course,” Alfred said. There was something warm in his voice. He rose up, standing.
“Wait– wait.” Bruce said. “Don’t go yet. Just stay a little while.”
Alfred hummed, amused and sat down again. “Just for a little while.” He said.
Bruce closed his eyes.
He was six years old again, and he was sick. Alfred was fussing over him.
He was eight years old again, and Alfred was trying to explain what death was.
He was fourteen years old, and Alfred was putting antiseptic cream on his split lip.
Bruce was forty years old, and he was sick again, and Alfred was sitting next to him. Always.
DarkestElemental616 