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Dick Grayson isn't usually the kind of guy who lounges about watching TV, doing nothing productive, but – Dick Grayson is also recovering from brain surgery, and it's somewhat dampened his usual enthusiasm for constant movement.
Besides, Alfred keeps him well-supplied with cereal and warm blankets, and after the insanity of the past year, it's a pleasant change of scenery to sit around and just… laze.
Not least when it's a wet, grey Gotham day, with rain drizzling heavily outside; sheets of water pattering steadily over the Manor's brick walls and glass panes.
Not least because Bruce is back, and everything is good again. Even Real Housewives of Gotham.
"— nasty tricks out of your Pinot filled ass?"
"Coming from the thug in a cocktail dress? Well excuse you, little miss —"
"Tell 'em, Chantelle," Dick interjects croakily, nodding along.
"Dick?"
"Bruce?" Dick jerks up, upsetting his carefully arranged collection of blankets.
Bruce is standing by the doorway, carrying — of all things — a serving tray. It's surreal, but after a year spent grieving the man's apparent death, still enough to make Dick's heart leap a little. God, he'd only resigned himself to never seeing the man again, to relying on memories that faded a little with each day that passed.
"You should eat," Bruce says, stepping towards the couch. The contents of the tray come into view as he sets it down on the coffee table — a cup of Ovaltine, and a plate of cookies dusted liberally with almond flakes. Clearly sent by Alfred, who has to be Dick's favourite person in the world right now.
He grins all the way to his eyeteeth. "A sight for sore eyes."
And if he's looking at Bruce, as well as the snacks — can anyone blame him? The man is decked out in office wear, shirtsleeves rolled up and hair slightly mussed, top buttons undone to reveal a sliver of clavicle and chest hair, and he is breathing and alive and there.
"How do you feel?" he asks, eyeing Dick critically. He hands the drink over to Dick, along with a cookie.
Bruce sounds — concerned. It's weird, and completely unexpected. Not unwanted, obviously, but not like Bruce. At all. It's enough to make Dick frown, take his mouth off the straw, and — stare, open-mouthed, when Bruce sits down next to him.
"Still woozy," Dick says hoarsely, tucking a knee to his chest and resting his cup on the cap of it. He nibbles on a cookie — shortbread, with hazelnut as well as almond, he idly notes — before adding, "But getting better. Just a few more days… be back to swinging around in tights."
And finishing his sentences without getting breathless, if he has anything to say about it.
Bruce shifts closer, his face inscrutable. Shuttered off, and at least that is familiar, even if he's clearly studying Dick's vitals. "You should sleep more."
"S'all I've been doing," Dick protests, though his voice peters off at the last syllable, leading him to return to sip at his Ovaltine again.
If Bruce had been around at all the past few days, he'd know that. But being away for a year meant the to-do list piled up with Batman matters and Bruce Wayne matters, and for once, Dick can't hold it against the man. Even if he really, really just wants to keep him close and make sure their family stays together for the foreseeable future.
But that's just the painkillers talking. Probably.
They watch each other for a few moments, quiet except for Dick's slurping. Dick takes an especially long suck of his straw, enough to hollow his cheeks, before slowly swallowing, and rolling the plastic tube between his lips. His eyes stay focused on Bruce.
Very rare are the occasions on which he's actually won these staring contests, but this time, it's Bruce clearing his throat, and averting his gaze.
Dick keeps on looking; keeps on drinking. He doesn't think he can get his fill.
Anyone else would miss the signs, but Dick learned from the best – from the man himself. Bruce's shoulders are relaxed, posture not nearly as ramrod straight as normal. He's planning on sticking around for a little while longer, apparently. It's an interesting development in an otherwise uneventful day, filled with cold rain, daytime television and snacks as it has been. Dick decides to test the waters a little.
"Hey," he croaks, taking a huge bite of cookie, and glancing up at the wall clock. "Sherlock Holmes re-runs in a while. Starting with The Hound of the Baskervilles. I think."
Bruce is watching the screen intently, even as a Real Housewife of Gotham overturns a large, sprawling table of food in a fit of rage. "One of the better episodes," he concedes.
Dick nods his agreement, and shifts a little, making to set his empty cup down. But Bruce grabs it, returns it to the coffee table for him, and then places a second cookie in Dick's hand, all in one swift motion. He tucks an errant blanket corner back over Dick's arm, before pulling back.
Dick blinks. "Uh. Thanks?"
Bruce is... taking care of him? He never does that. For anyone. Ever.
God, did they somehow manage to retrieve the wrong Bruce Wayne, again? Ugh. If this one turns out to be a crazed zombie, too, Damian will never let Dick live it down.
"Hh." Bruce's eyes are still fixed on the screen, though Dick can't imagine that the sight of three middle-aged socialites arguing over caviar is particularly novel to the man.
Dick turns away, frowning a little as he bites into his second cookie. At least Alfred had the presence of mind to leave the remote by his side, so it's no trouble for him to change the television channel; buy some time to contemplate the strange anomaly that is Bruce's behaviour, if nothing else.
And, okay, great, they're just in time for the starting theme of the Sherlock Holmes episode, grey colour palette and noir-style scenery and all. The muted sound of rain dripping over the Wayne estate adds an appropriate sense of atmosphere to the opening sequence, and it's hard not to feel nostalgic for the early days. They'd spent nights after patrol watching the graveyard re-runs of the old, terribly dated show; Robin tucked up close to Batman, a huge bowl of popcorn between them. This was back when Bruce hadn't been so caught up in the role of Gotham's cape-and-cowled vigilante; back when things had been easy between them.
Those were good times.
The best, even.
Dick lets out his breath in a soft woosh, and sneaks a peek out of the corner of his eye. Bruce is still intent on the television screen, but he's slowly leaning back on the couch, causing the leather to squeak in protest.
"— the probability is in favour of his being a country practitioner who does a great deal of his visiting on foot —"
Alright, so the man's sticking around for the show, too. Just as Dick had hoped, but once again, entirely not expected. And maybe this is weird, but then Bruce is shifting closer to him and oh look, their thighs are pressed together. Dick has to stop from gasping a little but Bruce is just so solid and warm and it's not like he hasn't craved this kind of contact between them for years upon years —
Well. Dick is nothing if not noted for his improvisational skills, and damn it if he lets them fail him now. Carpe omnes and all that. He leans into Bruce, resting the side of his head on the other man's shoulder, careful not to disturb his bandages. It takes some vague gesturing, but he manages to get portions of his blankets over Bruce's lap.
"— Really, Watson, you excel yourself — "
The couch shifts again, and something presses the bare skin under Dick's slouchy sweater. He jumps a little, almost choking on crumbs, but then there's a gentle curl of calloused fingers into his side and oh.
Right. Being felt up by Bruce Wayne can be taken off the to-do list, then.
A sigh escapes Dick's mouth, leading Bruce's warm hand to rub over his stomach. It's — as soothing as anything Dick might have ever daydreamed about, a welcome balm against the ambient rain-induced cold. All the more because it's Bruce, looking after Dick, like he is. Important. Like he matters. Dick knows he does, of course, but the acknowledgement of it from the man is rare and precious and it settles in Dick's tired body so glowingly warm that it's almost overwhelming.
But it's also terribly unfair, doing this while Dick is recovering from surgery and not quite back to his full mental faculties. Not quite back to his usual system of rational thought, because there's no other explanation for Dick using the reserves of his energy to swing his arm around Bruce, snuggling even closer.
He's spent too many years training up his sense of awareness and observation skills to ignore the background noise of the television and the rain, completely, but — at that moment, curled up around Bruce, he's more interested in feeling the very slight rise and fall of the man's chest as he inhales and exhales. If Dick closes his eyes and concentrates, he can hear the staccato beats of Bruce's heart, constant in its rhythm. Dick's every breath draws with it the scent of lingering cologne and a hint of sweat, a mixture that's distinctly Bruce.
It's tempting to undo the fancy shirt past the first two buttons, to get a lick of skin and add taste to the list of senses Bruce is currently filling. Certainly while Dick can use brain surgery as a valid excuse for acts of madness. But Bruce's voice, vibrating in that muscled torso and soft in Dick's ear, interrupts that line of thought.
"Alright?"
Dick shivers, pulling his blankets closer. He can feel, as much hear, Bruce's words, and he can't remember the last time they were this close.
... Well, okay, just last week, when Batman and Batman (and Robin) took down the 99 Fiends. Dick had needed to lean on Bruce's shoulder just to keep standing, at one point, but there was a bullet in his head, then, and it totally doesn't count.
Before that, though? When neither of them was injured and there weren't any Crises happening? Dick definitely can't remember that, and it sure isn't because his head wound screwed up his memories.
Bruce's emotional openness, on the other hand, definitely seems to have been tampered with. Maybe it's just par for course with time travel. A side effect, even. Either way, it's hardly the worst thing in the world, and a stupid thing to complain about. So Dick just goes along with it; just smiles into the silky shirt under his lips, and pats Bruce's abs.
"Another cookie'd be good."
The hand around his flank tightens a little, just a bit of acquiescing pressure, and really, it's a lie. Sure, Dick's got a hole in his head, and it's raining outside, but — Bruce is alive, Gotham's safe for the moment, and they're cuddling on the couch, watching television.
For the moment, at least, Dick has everything he needs.