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It was a night like any other —if it could still be considered night, it was so late that it was early again— gloomy and dull outside, with any semblance of stars clouded over and rain pouring without end. Lightning struck through the angry gray mass, clawing at the space around it, thunder rumbling not far after. Bruce lay in bed, tossing and turning with each strike and rumble of the storm outside, sleep just beyond his grasp.
Alfred had been firm in his stance that Batman and Robin weren’t to go out, that no one in their right mind —or the criminally insane, for that matter— would be out in this positively vicious weather, Master Bruce , and promptly canceled the night's patrol. Leaving Bruce restless. And anxious. And more paranoid than usual.
Just when he’d begun to drift, a loud bang shocked his mind awake again. It struck him that this noise should not have been alarming, as it was still violently storming outside —but something about it felt off. A crash distinct from thunder. He lay still for a minute, trying to force his sleep-deprived mind to think through the narrow array of possibilities. Just as his suspicions were about to check it off as a trick of his restless mind combined with the bad weather, he heard another, more muffled crash.
Bruce pounced out of bed without further thought, running out of his room and glancing around the manor’s hall. This second sound —he’d been more awake and aware of it— came from Dick’s room.
Flashes of worst-case scenarios flooded his mind: Dick, muffled and crying, injured or unconscious, a stranger with a variation of blunt objects flickering in their hands —changing from a baseball bat to a frying pan to a lead pipe— looting for valuables, breaking and smashing furniture and adjacent items, leaping out from the room’s broken window. His mind managed to process —screamed at him, really— that Wayne Manor was entirely impenetrable to the ordinary thief or burglar. This only succeeded in fanning the flames —a rogue or meta, breaking through the defenses with some twisted purpose of torturing Dick, or knowledge of Batman and Robin's identities— the possibilities of Dick, scared, hurt, and alone—
Bruce yanked the handle and rushed in, frantic eyes searching for his little boy. All the wild and irrational thoughts came to a screeching halt when he saw him curled in on himself on the floor. A lampshade was shattered on the floor, a vase was in a similar state on the carpet, and next to it was Dick. He was crying softly into his knees.
A quick scan of the room revealed no signs of forced entry, any other broken or otherwise assorted items, and no presence of another soul. A moment of relief brushed through Bruce as he allowed his tense shoulders to drop a centimeter. It was instead replaced by a different kind of anxiety bubbling up in his chest. He approached the little boy, crouching down and laying what he hoped was a comforting hand on his back. Dick flinched, his sob choking into a startled gasp as he glanced up and saw a familiar face. He immediately ducked his face back between his knees, biting at his lip to keep quiet.
“Dick…” Bruce tried to check for injuries but it was difficult given that he curled further into himself. A bright flash of lightning nearly lit up the whole room, thunder crashing as loud as a wooden mallet against a cymbal. Dick flinched again at the sound, whimpering into his knees.
Ah . Bruce thought. That was it, wasn’t it? Well obviously— it was more than just that, but that was part of it.
He let himself fall fully on the floor, leaning the trembling little boy toward him. It was moments like these, when Dick showed vulnerability that he remembered this was a child he was dealing with. It was surprisingly easy to forget when in the action of it all— he could leap through the air without a second thought, with all the grace of someone who was well experienced, doing somersaults off buildings, twisting in ways that would make a ballerina jealous, a witty mind and faster reflexes, kicking and punching with a bravado unbefitting someone who’d only recently picked up the mask and the lifestyle. Unbefitting because he was a kid. A kid who was scared of thunder.
Distantly, Bruce thought, it made sense. This type of weather was practically constant in Gotham —and although Robin has patrolled the city with Batman for nearly a year now, including in heavy rain— a storm this harsh wasn’t ordinary. It was likely that he wasn’t used to it, being a non-native. He’d chastise himself later for not concluding so sooner.
Bruce sat there, holding Dick close, allowing the boy to get comfortable enough to bury his face in his chest while his sobs slowed into sniffles. He rubbed small circles into his back, the same soothing motion he’d faintly remembered from his own mother. He nearly shuddered at the thought, suppressing it to be in the moment. Dick needed him, he couldn’t let himself close off and spiral. Not now.
In the softest voice he could conjure, Bruce finally spoke up, “How are you feeling, chum?” Dick sniffled. He didn’t respond, just sat there, whipping at his face with the back of his sleeve. When he stopped, he muttered an “I’m sorry” in such a quiet tone that if he wasn’t literally in Bruce’s arms, he wouldn’t have heard him.
He needed to assure him that this —whatever he was apologizing for— wasn’t his fault. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
Dick was quiet again, his trembling hadn’t stopped.
“For– for breaking your things..” he looked up through dark lashes with so much pain and sorrow. They were still pooling with unshed tears— no doubt a fault of his own for letting the boy believe that showing vulnerability was a weakness. Again, it was these moments that made him realize just how young Dick was. How impressionable he was. How easy it was for him to pick up habits and cues from those around him. From Bruce. It made Bruce feel all the more like he was failing him. That he couldn’t be what he needed.
He inhaled a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to compartmentalize those thoughts. Not now , he reminded himself.
“Never mind about that,” and because he realized that Dick probably needed to hear it from Bruce himself, “I’m not angry. I’m not upset. I’m just worried.” Then after a beat, “Do you want to talk about it? Maybe tell me what happened?”
Dick let his head fall, his face scrunching and twisting into an awfully grief-stricken expression. The tears fell silently down his already puffy cheeks and he grimaced as the broken vase came into his blurry view.
“I had a– a bad dream” he paused to sniffle, taking in a shaky breath before continuing, “about my parents… And I– I think I knocked over the lamp. I’m sorry… I was trying to clean it up. I was! But then there was– there was this really loud crash and I– I got scared and– and accidentally knocked over the vase too– I’m really sorry! I didn’t mean to make a mess.” He was getting frantic, speaking in rapid gasps and clutching at his sides as tears rolled faster and his trembling grew.
Of course. It had barely been two years since Dick’s parents had died. It had been decades for Bruce, and he still dreamed about them— but this memory was more fresh, more raw, in a way. For Bruce, all it had taken —outside what the torments of his mind suggested— were two quick shots before Martha and Thomas Wayne crumpled to the concrete and were pale-faced. But Dick had witnessed as his parents fell eternally to their deaths. Watched as they flailed, screaming, before their harsh impact on the un-netted circus tents’ floor. Then again, watched as they writhed, blood pooling around them from the force of it all, as their color drained with the blood, as their eyes lost their shine. It was gut-wrenching and excruciatingly slow. It was a reality paralleled by the nightmarish illusions of Scarecrow’s toxins.
“Shh… It’s okay, it’s okay… You’re okay. Dick, look at me, take a deep breath with me.” He used his free hand to guide Dick’s damp chin to his face, catching his gaze, taking a long deliberate breath, holding it in for a few seconds, and then breathing out. He repeated the action a few times until Dick caught on to it and his ragged breathing slowed to something more even. They stayed like that for a while, both taking deep breaths. The storm outside slowed, the rain becoming distant gray noise.
It struck Bruce that he had no idea what to do from here. What to say. How to ease the pain. “I– didn’t realize you were so afraid of thunder, I’m sorry you were left alone to deal with it.” He started, because really, what was he supposed to say?
This was somehow enough to elicit a response. Dick shook his head against Bruce’s chest, having dropped back into it. “I—” a swallow and a long pause, “I used to crawl into bed with my parents… whenever it stormed.” His voice was muffled and low, just loud enough for Bruce to hear. “When— when I was scared, we would hide under the sheets together. My dad would say something silly, like how the clowns could sneeze louder than the thunder, and my mom would pretend to scold him for being rude. I knew she never meant it, she was always smiling when she did. And then she would make hot cocoa for us when it was over.” For a moment, a fond smile tugged at his lips, but it curled into something bittersweet and sour as he continued, “they always made it feel okay…” He trailed off after that.
Christ.
What was Bruce supposed to do? He couldn’t replace what Dick had lost— wouldn’t even dream of it. He had no right. He could try to be something similar, but it was never going to be the same. He knew that. He knew it firsthand. From how difficult he had been with Alfred. How cold and distant he was, how stubborn he was— still is. And if he did try to continue those traditions —of cuddling, jokes, and hot cocoa— to try to cheer Dick up, would it help him heal or would it bring back that intense feeling of loss? The memories coupled and amplified with the wrongness of it being someone else? The inexplicable, ineffable guilt of sharing this special moment with someone else?
It was overwhelming. Bruce felt incredibly underqualified.
He figured, in the honesty and vulnerability of it all, that he should probably share something too— for a sense of connection or understanding if nothing else. Because he did understand. Perhaps better than anyone else could. To think, all those years of emotional repression —conceal don’t feel— undone by a child.
“When I was your age— younger— I used to be… afraid of owls.” He let this sink in a bit, trying to piece together how to continue. Dick once again peered up at him, confusion and curiosity swimming in his azure eyes. Bruce saw so much of himself in those dreary eyes that he wanted to look away.
He took a breath, steeling his resolve, forcing himself to continue. “My father told me a story about the Court of Owls one night— a sinister society of wealthy criminals who run Gotham from the shadows. It disturbed me so badly that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It made me hate owls— I even shot one once.” He paused to huff dryly at the memory. There was a lot more he wanted to say about the Court, about their involvement, their effects on Gotham, his paranoia, but that would have to wait for another —less sorrowful— time.
“My father realized how much it bothered me, and they both tried to assure me that no such society existed. That it was just a story. They tucked me in one night, my mother sang a lullaby and kissed my forehead, and my father promised that no owls could or would dare step into our home…” He stopped again, blinking away the tears pooling his vision. He redacted the part about him still faintly believing that the Court actually existed, and seeing signs of their influence in Gotham's broken legal systems. Again, that would have to wait for another time.
“I slept easy that night,” he added pointlessly. And then, because he thought it was necessary, “It helped. I’m not scared of owls anymore,” he concluded.
Dick had been watching him through the whole story, curious eyes never wavering. He stared in silence a while longer, taking everything in.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and groggy, making him sound much younger than he was. “I miss them… I miss them so much,” he hiccuped, pressing his puffy cheek against Bruce. I want them back , he could hear without either of them saying it. “I know. I know, baby bird,” he absentmindedly ran his fingers through Dicks hair, hoping it was grounding— for who’s sake, he wasn’t sure. “I miss them too, every day.”
“Does it ever get easier? Is it always going to feel this bad?”
The absolute agony this boy must’ve been in to ask if it would ever end… Christ . It made Bruce hesitate. Was there any point in lying here? In telling the little boy what he knew wasn’t true, what he wouldn’t believe anyway? That the ache would one day cease? He took a deep breath, continuing the path his fingers were on.
“I’ll be honest… It’s going to feel awful for a long time. And you’ll never really be able to stop thinking about it… What you could have done, what could have gone differently, if you would have just known, or been more careful…” That seemed too grim, a child still needed hope after all, “but it does get better.”
It sounded like an empty promise even to his own ears. Like the kind of thing people tell the grieving when sympathy falls short, just to have something to say. He’d been on the receiving end of it for years, and it always made his gut wrench, churning with inexplicable resentment, when people said some amalgamation of the sentiment– because he knew they wouldn’t – couldn’t – understand. That the fleeting pity they felt couldn’t hold a candle to the tidal wave of emotions embroidered deep in his bones.
“Slowly. It will slowly get better,” he amended. The embroidered pain pulled at his bones, threatening to tear. He thought about what could ease it, what had eased it, in whatever small ways it might have seemed at the time. “It helps to talk about it”, and god– the irony in that statement nearly made him flinch– “to know that someone is there for you, someone who understands.” He hoped the implication was clear. That he would be there for Dick –to listen, as a shoulder to cry on, to take his anguish, his rage– whatever Dick needed.
Unbeknownst to himself, his free arm had snaked around Dick’s tiny frame, pulling him into a secure hug. As if Bruce’s arms could shield him from heartache. From his inner turmoil. As if it could compare at all to the loving embrace of a parent.
And yet. And yet Dick held on, little arms curling hesitantly around his middle, pressing against him. Damp cheeks and little tremors and all.
“Can you— can I stay with you for the rest of the night? I don’t want to be alone…” He sounded so small, so unsure— as if Bruce could have said no, could have refused him, could have left him after all that.
Bruce’s heart wrenched at the thought.
He pressed a kiss into raven hair. He stood, gently lifting the little boy with him, shifting him to set him on his hip. Dick’s arms moved up to circle around his neck, check still pressed on his chest. Someone none the wiser could have mistaken them for a doting father and his crying son. Maybe one day, Bruce would agree with them. If only ever in his heart than out loud.
Bruce couldn’t smuggle the tug of a pained and incredibly fond smile pulling at his lips as he spoke softly into the koala grip Dick had on him, “of course, baby bird.”
Figuring neither of them would be able to go back to sleep, much less continue such a heavy topic after depleting so much emotional energy, Bruce decided they needed some serotonin to distract from the sorrows. He led them out into the hall, grabbed a fluffy cream-toned blanket from a nearby closet, descended down the main stairs, past the dining room, and into the kitchen. He single-handedly prepared a pot of chamomile tea —Alfred would be so proud— and took two cups with him over to the couch in the main downstairs sitting room.
Bruce set Dick down, draping the blanket around both their shoulders. They huddled together as they drank tea and watched old Gray Ghost films.
At some point in the night —morning, really— the storm had ceased and the clouds had cleared. The birds rose with the sun, the bats chittered their goodnights, and Bruce and Dick lay asleep on the couch, perched against each other. If either of them were drooling a bit– no one would know. The TV screen was black, their cups long since emptied and gone, the curtains still drawn, while they peacefully slumbered.
And at least in the moment’s silence, no nightmares haunted their dreams.