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“I came as soon as I could!” Dick says, rounding a corner so quickly he skids on the marble floor. The text had come through almost an hour ago, but he had been on the tail end of a Zoom interview (quitting policing this pandemic has been both terrifically easy and terribly hard) so between putting on pants and getting through Friday-night traffic, this is how things lie. “How is he?”
“‘He’ is fine, Dick, thank you for concern,” Bruce says tetchily from where he’s sat in the centre of the Yellow Room, surrounded six foot deep by Wayne Manor silverware haloing out around him. The UV lights they use at crime scenes are blaring harsh violet lines around the perimeter, and further out by the edges of the room, 6 of their portable sun lamps are turned off but trained right on him.
“This is all pointless,” Bruce carries on, sweeping his arm ‘round wide in a grand gesture, hissing when a brush against a silver-plated serving trolley has his hand sizzling. “Alfred really shouldn’t have called you.”
Dick ignores him completely to turn to Alfred, who has 3 sets of rosary beads hanging around his neck and irritation hanging from his eyes. “Uhm. I didn’t read further down the text than ‘B was attacked, please come over when you can’. I’m guessing I missed something?”
“You would be guessing right, Master Richard.” Alfred whips off a rosary and hangs it around Dick’s neck, and plops three teaspoons into a blazer pocket. “We aren’t sure quite who is to blame for this latest conundrum, but Batman was struck down by something while making rounds by the Cathedral. Master Bruce appears to have become a, a...” Alfred makes a disgusted noise, “a vampire of some sort, and had insisted I lock him up in a cell till a magic-user from the League could come by and take a look.”
Dick’s ashamed to admit that on hearing the word ‘vampire’ his fist had curled tightly around a teaspoon. After all, the bluntest edge can still manifest as a shiv, if you shove it in hard enough. He’s further shamed that Bruce clearly catches his micro-movement, and he just downright hates the pleased look B has at knowing that Dick is open to bodily violence against him.
Part of the commute time to get back to the Manor almost always involves him psyching himself up to deal with Bruce, and today it looks like it’s going to pay off.
“Okay, got it.” Dick deeply doesn’t, but bluffing can be as important as actually understanding, so. “Why’s he being kept here instead?”
“No master of the Manor,” Alfred says the way a lesser man would say ‘No son of mine’,”will be tossed into some cell while in full possession of himself, thank you very much.”
“I was going to start an automated protocol to have myself manacled and emergency-signal Superman to come by and potentially put me down,” Bruce interrupts from the near distance, “but I was lured here and now I’m trapped.”
Dick catches himself halfway through a laugh; he can’t help it. If Bruce really, really wanted to, escaping this room with its myriad hazards and shining lights would be possible, especially if the situation was so urgent that he was willing to risk serious injury for it.
If Bruce really, really thought he was a danger, thought deep in his messy little heart that he really, really could hurt or injure Alfred while it was just the two of them here waiting for reinforcements, Dick knows he would have grabbed the silver steak knife closest by and, ah, taken matters into his own hands.
It’s as ingrained a response as Dick instinctively putting himself between Bruce and Alfred even while his brain was still catching up to sudden vampirism, shiv-spoon (shvoon?) at the ready.
He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, untenses muscles that had been ready for something awful since the text had come through. “You’re finally more bat than man, B, so don’t bother pretending to be upset.” Dick spies a tray laden with soup and bread on a little coffee table and heads over, giving up guarding Alfred because their much scarier guard dog has just sprouted fangs. “Oh, man, tomato soup and garlic bread? Alfred, you think of everything.”
"I do try," Alfred primly says, clearly satisfied that Dick is on his side. "And if you could see your way clear to getting Master Bruce to also partake?"
"I said no, Alfred!" Bruce's voice cracks like sudden thunder across the room, and it would have been mighty terrifying with its slight unearthly timber if the UV lights bouncing off forks didn’t make the room look a lot like a rave. Even with his eyes starting to turn red, even with the harsh edges of his shape blurring into mist, Bruce can’t quite manage to intimidate.
Everyone in the room knows that it’s just for show, now, so even paranormal powers manifesting doesn’t slow down Dick’s enjoyment of soup. “C’mon, Bruce. It’s just like a blood transfusion, except you take it through the mouth. We all routinely take worse things through the mouth.” Just last week Dick had crunched on something while eating a bowl of soggy cereal he’d accidentally left out overnight, and the certainty that it was some sort of super-armoured cockroach haunts him till this day. “Is it a supply and demand thing? You can have some of my blood bags, Alfred can take some out of me while I’m here.”
“What an excellent suggestion, Master Richard. My blood has unfortunately been turned down because Master Bruce has some spectacularly backwards thoughts regarding older folk, but surely there’ll be no complaint for yours.”
“There are plenty of complaints!” Bruce roars, now up on his feet and pacing in the little circle at the centre of all the silver. “I will not eat anyone’s blood, I will stay in this space and meditate until Zatanna shows up and cures me. There is a magic user zapping vampirism into people in Gotham, and none of this will be solved by you sticking an arm under my teeth!”
His fangs are all the way out now, down almost to his chin, drawing scratches on stubbly skin. Under the native environment of the Bat, out in the night perched somewhere high, he’d be a terror.
Under the warm loving light of the Yellow Room, under the warm loving gaze of people who know him best, he’s more ‘angry hissing kitten’ than anything else.
Dick slurps the rest of the soup, and mops up the rest with the crusty bit of his garlic toast. “So, if it was me that got turned into a vampire, you’re telling me you… wouldn’t IV pump me full of blood fresh out your veins? If you lie to me I will throw a teaspoon at your head.”
There’s nothing but a mutinous quiet from Bruce, who’s huffing and misting and snarling and floating a good three inches off the ground. Good, at least he’s not feeling so pressed to the edge that he needed to lie.
“... I’ll take my own blood.”
Alfred sniffs, and it’s a dignified sound that somehow echoes in this fairly large room. “After your little altercation with Dr. Ivy last week, sir, your own supply is running unfortunately low. Two bags left, and I intend to keep them in case coming out of vampirism treats you poorly. No, sir, you’ll have a mug of Master Richard’s blood or so help me God I will tranquilise you and feed it to you myself.”
Alfred catches himself mid-rampage, and huffs a little while neatening the cuff of his shirt. “Those are your choices, sir. Pick one.”
Reading the room, it’s easy to tell that the hour it took Dick to get here from Bludhaven has likely been filled with that sort of tersely-worded bitching that Alfred and Bruce have down to the finest art. “A couple of pints of blood, Type D, coming right up. Bruce, I’d recommend just giving up right now. If Alfred works down the line, Jason’s coming in next, and that’s gonna end with a fist to the mouth.” Dick brushes crumbs off his hands, and jumps out of the crouch he’d been in on the arm of the sofa to head towards Alfred. “No one’s getting out of that without a broken finger or fang or both, so just take mine, okay? For us.”
Bruce doesn’t deign to actually say yes or fine , just seems to fade into shadows he’s manifesting himself, but it reads like a grumpy acceptance of defeat.
Good enough , thinks Dick. “Give us a sec, we’ll be right back. If you’re extra good, I’ll even make a Bloody Mary out of mine!”
Batarangs aren’t made of silver, but they sure do make a flashy thunk when they bite into a doorjamb a clean 10 feet away from the nearest person.
Alfred huffs a quiet laugh but Dick is much louder and substantially more insulting as they make their way down to the Cave.
-
The blood fridge is a thing of stainless steel tucked in a corner of the medbay, and it’s covered in magnets. The Wayne brood travel a lot, but Bats and Birds travel even more. It’s become a weird habit that got adopted like kids get adopted ‘round here; Dick looks at a cracked dinosaur magnet he’d bought at the Bludhaven Natural History Museum his first night out as Nightwing, and nostalgia hits harder than teeth in the neck. “We’re gonna need a bigger one of these soon, Alfred. We’re almost out of free real estate.”
“We shall persevere nonetheless, sir.” Alfred opens the fridge, and goes along the top row till he gets to the little placard with Dick’s face on it. The filing system remains sweetly, sweetly old-school, even if everyone knows where theirs is stored by feel alone, and each bag is barcoded with enough details to alarm even the most dedicated phlebotomist.
Looking over the racks, Dick whistles. “Bruce isn’t the only one who’s had a rough time recently, huh? Tim didn’t mention that the last Titans’ fight got him two bags down.”
For that, he gets his ear flicked. “Don’t snoop, Master Richard, it’s unbecoming.” Alfred takes a bag off Dick’s shelf and pops it into a cooler bag. He closes the door, and heads to the kitchenette in the Cave where he scrounges up a little metal straw. “Thank you for coming by so quickly. I was at my wits’ end trying to convince him to have just the littlest nibble. He tried to keep himself locked in the Batmobile when he came back via autopilot.” Alfred rinses the straw with more aggression than necessary. “I tugged on the handle, and the door was locked. A door, locked to me! In my own home!” He sounds as incensed as Alfred ever does, but he also goes to grab some tomato juice and a couple of sticks of celery, just in case.
“You wore him down for me, Alfred, I had it easy.” Dick quietly grabs another couple of bags of his blood, because deep deep down Bruce isn’t the only one hesitant about feeding on family, looks like. “Surprised you’d turn to me for this, though. Seems like more of a Tim thing, have him over with a 50-slide presentation on why vampirism’s really not that different to CPR, or something.” He swoops by Alfred’s side and picks up the cooler bag and the bucket of ice, because there are a lot of stairs from the Cave back up to Yellow, and kind men deserve kind things done on behalf of their creaking knees, thanks very much.
“You certainly have a point, Master Tim can be alarmingly persuasive with his statistics and, ah, unblinking stare.” Alfred doesn’t acknowledge Dick helping him with his things, just looks a little glad to have a hand free to hold on to the handrail, which is acknowledgement enough. “However, I have to admit that when I am at my wits’ end with Master Bruce, I always want to turn to you, Master Dick.” He pauses at the top of the stairs, turns and smiles his neat little smile at Dick who is finding balance harder to maintain than usual. “You have kept me company in my never-ending fight to care for Master Bruce longer than anyone else, after all.”
(Longer, longer, longer even than Bruce’s parents, God love them both.)
Alfred reaches out, pats Dick’s hand and nimbly reacquires his wares. “Do not under any circumstance tell the others, of course, but an old man is allowed his favourite ally.”
Dick is a whole-ass adult who’s lived through more things than people 15 times his age, he’s dressed in a smart suit and tie after an interview for a position as a flight paramedic, and he’s helped ward off the apocalypse at least on three separate occasions.
He knows enough about enough to know that their vampire-magician is deeply, deeply outclassed by Alfred’s mastery over spacetime, because right now Dick knows that if he looks down at himself, he’ll be 9 years old again, wearing oversized pyjamas as he tries not to cry because it’s his birthday and Alfred had made him a stack of pancakes the size of his head, while Bruce skulks by the door holding five separate tubs of ice cream, looking uncomfortable and uncertain and bound and determined to be a responsible parent
(like he’s bound and determined to be a responsible vampire).
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dick murmurs under his breath, rubbing his cheek to break the spell.
“Language,” Alfred’s voice floats back towards him, as they make their way back to the Yellow Room.
-
There’s a bit of a scuffle, trying to get Bruce to actually drink the blood. When Dick had casually tossed a bag at Bruce, it had been batted right back at him like the world’s weirdest opening to a game of ping-pong. Another fight almost broke out then, because at least a third of all of Gotham’s collective stubbornness was sat in the room at that point, but Dick managed to force through a resolution by making a Bloody bloody Mary for Bruce, and regular Bloody Marys for himself and Alfred.
They sit where they want, Bruce in his circle, Dick perched on a windowsill, and Alfred on the sofa, and they sip at their meticulously non-identical drinks. They’re on their third round of Bloody Marys and sweet idle conversation when the message comes through that Zatanna’s on her way, and the tension in the room drains as smoothly as they do their drinks.
“Ah, what perfect timing,” Alfred says like he hasn’t worked his way through an alarming amount of vodka. “Just in time for a really early breakfast.”
It’s 3 AM, and hopefully after unraveling vampirism Z will be interested in some god-tier chicken and waffles. Dick's stomach is already rumbling, and he's in an unspeakably good mood. It's a trinity of trinities, three generations of Wayne and Wayne-adjacents, three Bloody Marys each, it's three o'clock in the morning.
There's a father, a son, and Alfred counts as their Holiest Ghost, probably. Funny that Bruce has to become unholy to make Dick feel gently religious, though that might be the vodka and dreams of fried chicken futures. "How're you feeling, Bruce?"
Flushed with blood, Bruce looks healthier and heartier than he does on average, which is a fight to tackle a different night. "... Better," he admits, digging a fang into a celery stick with an expression of deep concentration. "I could fly if I tried, I think."
Dick whoops, and nearly drops his glass. "It's that vitamin D, bay-bee."
It even earns a chuckle from Alfred, and Dick can feel god in this Yellow Room tonight. "I think," Dick says with utmost seriousness, "that being a vampire is a good look for you, B. Feels good to get you something, even if it's just a drink."
Feels good to be able to provide for you instead of the other way 'round, is something a more sober Dick would think.
From his corner, Alfred raises his glass in a steady-handed toast. "Just a drink is plenty when just a drink is all you need. So here's a toast to you, Master Dick. Thank you for coming to our rescue."
In the middle of a sea of silverware, Bruce raises his glass too, and oh, now Dick's the one gone red in the face.
"Any time," he says, and he's glad to know he means it. "Honestly, this makes me feel like B should get turned into a vampire more often." There's a lot of magic in the Manor tonight, and only the tiniest fraction of it has to do with their rogue magician. Dick can't remember when he last spent this much time with just Alfred and Bruce, and it feels like a loose anchor digging in juuust right.
The world's in turmoil and his personal life has seen better days, but there's a tether that comes off from the Manor and these two men. Sometimes, it's a noose.
More often than not, it's a lifeline, and what a fine feeling it is to know that that goes both ways.
Dick doesn't know what's showing on his face, though by how Bruce is now sat up and intensely staring at him, he's probably revealing way, way too sopping much.
Bruce clears his throat, and his flush deepens into a rosy, rosy red. "Well. As being a part-time vampire does have its advantages, it's. Hmm. I will discuss it with Zatanna, and see what I can do."
And geeze, time-travel magic must be inherited too because Dick's been forced back to his 9th birthday again, to Bruce Wayne-the-literal-Batman hovering uncertainly while holding way too much ice cream as he tries to accommodate Dick in that stupid, awkward, and hideously embarrassing way only he knows how.
"I'll toast to that," Dick says, ignoring the terrible scratch and crack in his voice, and he and Bruce both only nearly lose it when Alfred raises his glass again, and
quietly, quietly
murmurs, "Here's a toast to my family".