Work Text:
Small talk in the Batmobile should have been Bruce’s first warning sign.
Damian is not a talkative Robin. Not when things are going well. He’s not Dick. He doesn’t just chatter for chatter’s sake. The boy has a litany of complaints ready for every occasion, but when he’s pleased, he’s silent.
And yet.
“So,” Damian says, with all of the throat-clearing primness of the Speaker calling Parliament to order. “With regards to this year’s Valentine’s Day, I’ve done as instructed.”
Bruce grips the steering wheel tighter. Valentine’s Day. What a nuisance. Immediately, Bruce’s mind conjures a suspect list of the people at fault for teaching Damian about Valentine’s Day.
This is Dick’s doing, no doubt. His family traditions for Valentine’s Day were always more all-encompassing than Bruce’s family. Dick once filled every pouch in his utility belt with candy hearts. And that had been a modest year for him. For Dick, Valentine’s Day is a production. Bruce can’t relate. Valentine’s Day at Wayne Manor had merely meant a quiet night at home with Alfred, while his mother and father were off having a romantic evening. Late at night, they’d awaken Bruce with something small, a decadent chocolate box or a slice of the finest cheesecake. But it was not some elaborate, multi-stepped, gift giving affair. Not the way Dick likes to celebrate it.
Part of Bruce is relieved that Dick’s doing well enough now to want to celebrate the day at all. There have been too many dark years where Dick hasn’t even bothered.
But another, much smaller, part of Bruce wishes Dick would pick another holiday of fascination. Valentine’s Day is just work. If Bruce isn’t having to craft some schmaltzy stunt for his playboy disguise, he’s having to prepare for an attack from Calendar Man, or any number of the year’s jilted villains. It’s exhausting. Bruce cannot wait for the day to be well and truly over.
Damian continues on, uncaring of his father’s darkening temperament. “The candies Pennyworth and I chose have been distributed to my classmates. And my most important comrades were delivered personalized notes and gifts. I want it known that I have done my duties.”
Bruce merely grunts in acknowledgement. He adds Stephanie to the suspect list. This seems exactly the sort of ‘age appropriate’ triviality she’s always eager to force upon Damian.
Damian turns his accusatory stare on to Bruce; the stark white lens of the domino mask make his stare all the more piercing.
“Accusatory stare” is vernacular borrowed from Dick, who, during one of their many fights, accused Bruce of having ‘accusatory stare resting bitch face’. In effect, he meant that Bruce’s default face always looked judgmental. Bruce hadn’t believed him. All the evidence had pointed to the conclusion that Dick was merely projecting his own frustrations on to Bruce’s perfectly neutral face. Bruce had been certain he was right, until he was first confronted with his own stare reflected back at him on Damian’s face.
Damian subjects him to such an accusatory stare face, frequently.
“Have you fulfilled yours?” Even Damian’s voice is accusatory.
Hm. Bruce calculates if Damian’s accusations have any merit. Was he supposed to do something for Damian?
“I can get you chocolate,” he concedes gruffly.
Damian’s face twists into a little ball of fury. “Not me, you oaf. I have enough American chocolate,” he spits out the word the way other children might say broccoli, “to last a lifetime. I meant that it is nearly midnight, and you have yet to contact Grayson.”
“He doesn’t like gifts,” is the first thing Bruce says.
Another mistake. He lets his own annoyance speak before his mind can properly strategize. The absurdity of the topic makes him careless. If only he had just thought about the implications for one extra moment…
But he’s too caught up in his own desires.
He would buy Dick a city, if Dick would only let him.
“An activity, then,” Damian says primly. “Take him out dancing. Or partner-skydiving. Surely you can think of something. I can’t be expected to plan this all out myself. Grayson’s tastes,” he gives Bruce a withering stare, “elude me.”
Damian’s implications are obvious, and yet, Bruce’s brain stutters over them, a failing engine.
He needs to be certain of what the boy means.
No. More than that. He needs to be refuted.
“You want me to take Dick out,” Bruce says, every syllable heavy. “For an ‘activity’. On Valentine’s Day.”
“Tt. Don’t be absurd,” Damian replies, and Bruce can breathe again.
Until Damian continues to speak.
“We’re patrolling tonight. I want you to take him out on the weekend to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Obviously,” Damian huffs. “Grayson understands the importance of keeping our patrol schedule. He’ll wait.”
Bruce stares at the road racing ahead of him. Each mile traveled takes him further away from his own brain. It’s as if Damian reached into his skull and tossed it out the window.
“This Saturday, I will keep the city safe while you romance him,” Damian explains, as if that’s the problem Bruce has with his words. “You may take him out then.”
Bruce’s brain splats on the pavement. What’s left of him is only explosion.
“There will be no romancing.”
Bruce puts the full authority of Batman behind his words. He knows how to make his voice thunder and quake. He’s trained in fear, well skilled at wielding it. The Voice would have worked on Tim.
Damian is utterly unmoved. The boy doesn’t even flinch.
For the first time in a long time, Bruce doesn’t feel like the Batman. He feels like an incompetent sitcom father being bested by his precocious son.
“Don’t be childish,” Damian scolds. “I admit that the logic behind this holiday is lacking, but Grayson values it, and good partnerships are based on compromise.”
Bruce cannot believe he’s getting scolded by his son about partnership. His partnership with Dick, especially. Dick and Bruce’s partnership is fine. It’s the best it’s ever been since Dick left Robin behind. Bruce never dared hope things could ever be so easy between them again. The only way things that could improve are…
Not allowed, not allowed. Romance. What a terrible word. Bruce has done everything in his power to train himself to never think of the word ‘romance’ next to Dick Grayson. It’s not an option. Infeasible.
But Damian’s careless, reckless words have summoned an old ghost back into existence; a witch cursing him with desire. And that’s what it is. A curse. Bruce falls deeper into himself, into the dark pit of desire he keeps hidden from the world.
Damian clicks his tongue over Bruce’s lack of an audible response.
“At the very least, you must wish him good tidings on the day itself.” Damian taps the digital clock on the Batmobile’s console. It reads 11:45pm in blood red pixels.
There’s a beat.
The Batmobile purrs through the night.
Bruce’s brain is still roadkill, far behind them.
“Must I do everything?” Damian grumbles. And before Bruce can do anything to stop his worst behaved son, Damian is calling Nightwing from the Batmobile.
“Yellow,” says Dick, filling the car with his melodious tenor.
Damn Dick’s voice. So carefree and effusive, even in the smallest of greetings. A routine com call reply should not be this distracting.
“Nightwing.” Bruce manages the name entirely out of habit. His throat is coated with concrete, a tomb for words. He suddenly feels twenty years younger, with all the foolishness and uncertainty that being young entailed. It’s a thoroughly unpleasant sensation. And familiar. Dick always makes him feel young.
Damian’s accusatory stare is scalding.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Bruce says. He’s said the well wishes to Dick before, but they’ve never felt so weighty. So full of implication. The forbidden word hangs above his head like a guillotine. Romance. A sweet and terrible dream.
Damian leans back in his seat, pleased. Somehow that only makes Bruce feel more humiliated.
It must be a mere child’s misunderstanding on Damian’s part. He can’t possibly think that he…that Dick…romance. Bruce has been so careful. His feelings for Dick are hidden from everyone, including himself. It’s not even a sacrifice. Bruce pays the price readily. That’s what it takes to keep his family together.
Waiting for Dick’s response takes an eternity. Dick is so good at anticipating Bruce’s needs, his motives, his strategies. He needs Dick to detect the hostage situation he’s found himself in. Bruce may be a great detective – called by some the greatest – but Damian is an unsolvable mystery. Only Dick has managed to decipher him. He needs Dick to hear the plea in his words. He needs Dick to understand what has transpired without Bruce ever having to say 'romance’ and reeducate Damian accordingly.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, B,” is all Dick says. His voice is overflowing with warmth, sweet and lovely.
Bruce is grateful that he had long ago mastered the ability to stop his blush at will.
“And Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too, Robin,” Dick coos. “Did you like my present?”
A frown tugs on Bruce’s face. So he was meant to get Damian a present today. Hrm.
Damian smiles, a small but pleased upturn of his lips. “It was satisfactory.”
It’s impressive how well the boy keeps the smile out of his voice.
Bruce knows Dick hears it, anyway.
“Satisfactory, huh?” Dick says, teasing and genuine at the same time. “Can’t ask for more than that!”
Damian’s smile turns more into a smirk. But it does stir some affection within Bruce. His youngest son is so much like a feral street cat, a menace until he purrs.
After a few moments of tense silence, Damian’s mood shifts back into dark irritation. His accusation radiates off of him in waves. Has Bruce not indulged the boy’s absurd whims enough? What more does his son want from him? He can’t possibly expect Bruce to actually ask Dick to accompany him on an ‘activity’ in celebration of Valentine’s Day.
“So…” says Dick, sensing the tension. “Do you guys need anything else?”
Finally. An out.
“No,” says Bruce.
“Yes,” says Damian.
Father and son exchange heated glares.
No winner can be declared. A police alert flashes on the Batmobile’s console, startling them both. A robbery at the jewelry store, Larry Winston, but a block away from the Clocktower.
Damian’s grin stretches out like taffy.
Bruce would yell if he could but Dick’s still on the line. All Bruce can do is turn his most fearsome glare upon his son. A gaze so cold, so full of raw power, it has made hardened criminals weep for their mothers.
It does nothing.
“Robbery on Simone Avenue,” says Damian. His triumphant smirk hasn’t left his face. “We require your assistance, Nightwing.”
“Roger that, rerouting,” Dick replies. “Be there in five. Try not to finish the party before I get there. Nightwing out.”
Bruce levels a second glare so scathing it would flay flesh from bone. His most meddlesome Robin only preens under the heat of his father’s disapproval.
“We don’t need Nightwing for this.”
Damian rolls his eyes, triumph twisting into disgust. “You’re hopeless,” he says.
Father and son fall into a tense but mutual silence after that. It’s too late to send Nightwing away now. Bruce will just have to live through it. Keep Damian from making an ass out of himself in front of Dick. Once patrol is over, there will be abundant time with which to punish Damian for even having the word ‘romance’ in his vernacular.
For now, there’s a criminal to stop.
Within minutes, Batman and Robin arrive on scene.
It’s a gooey pink disaster.
The jewelry store’s façade has a giant heart-shaped hole in it. Bruce scowls. The last thing he needs is more villains with a cartoon obsession in Gotham. Around the perimeter of the hole a sickeningly sweet-smelling pink fluid oozes out. Its consistency is almost like melted ice cream, but experience has taught Bruce to assume that any strange substance in Gotham is deadly. Even the very street Larry Winston is on is utterly ravaged. Cop cars have been flung upside down – explosion perhaps – and glued windshield side down to the concrete, pinned by what appears to be four large pink hearts.
Bruce gives them a passing glance as he drives past. Empty. The officers in them must have already escaped.
In front of all the wreckage stands one man. Caucasian, average build, with weight carried mostly in his gut rather than extremities. Not much muscle definition. He’s wearing heart-shaped goggles that conceal his eyes. His pink shoes look like a cross between combat and go-go boots. The rest of his attire almost looks like he retrofitted a cheap Halloween Ghostbusters costume. He has a large heart-shaped pack on his back, connected to a hose. His belt is full of dangling pink and red hearts of different sizes. Bruce spots some items that obviously look like heart-shaped grenades.
He sighs. Bruce has been at this game long enough to size up the newcomers on the spot. He’s too committed to the gimmick. It’s not organic. Dick would call him a wannabe.
He doesn’t even notice the Batmobile’s arrival. It’s not until both Batman and Robin have exited the vehicle that the man turns around.
“Batman!” The man thrust his hands up widely in joy. “At last!” He clears his throat. It’s evident that he’s trying to restrain his giddiness. He’s failing.
“Tis I, the Matchmaker!” He strikes a theatrical pose. “The Lord of Love, Dictator of Desire, Breaker of Hearts and Men.” Dear god. There’s a pose for each epithet.
Beside him, Damian looks more repulsed than Bruce has ever seen him. Bruce commiserates.
“And you, Batman,” he says, turning his hose at the duo. Bruce can clearly see that the nozzle is heart-shaped. “Have finally met your match!”
The hose blasts them.
Quicker than lightning, Bruce draws Damian close to him. He raises his cape, shielding them both from the attack. The pink goo eats through the Kevlar.
Acid hearts. He shoots acid hearts.
And his Robins wonder why he’s never in the ‘Valentine’s Day’ spirit.
The thought’s an error. It leads him back to that same stutter. Dick. Romance. Romancing Dick. He taught Dick how to partner dance, a lifetime ago. They had moved perfectly together. They always had, back then. The dynamic duo. He’s never dared ask Dick for a dance since he became Nightwing. Would they still move as if made to be one body?
Unproductive, malfunctioning brain. Bruce shakes the thought off. He needs to focus.
With his boot, he rips off the damaged cape. The acid sputters away. It’s not strong enough to eat through the Kevlar and the street.
“Robin,” Bruce commands. He has a plan on his lips, but Damian is gone. Before any real fear can set in, his eyes find Robin prowling the shadows on the roofs. Bruce could snarl. Disobedient brat, rushing into action without a thought in his head, as usual.
A streak of blue flutters beside Robin. Oh. Bruce readjusts his assessment. Damian didn’t impulsively run into danger. He spotted Dick before Bruce did. In the time it took Bruce to shake off the acid, and without a word said over comms, they had made a plan to stop the Matchmaker themselves.
Bruce forces himself still.
He’s proud of them. So proud.
And lonely.
He’s not a part of their team. Neither of them need him the way that he needs –
There’s movement underneath one of the cop cars. The silhouette of a man is suddenly visible. Bruce rushes towards him. The four hearts on the corners of the car seemed to have leaked pink goo all around the entire vehicle, sealing it to the ground.
He’ll leave the Matchmaker to his boys. Bruce can keep one eye on the fight while he frees the poor, undoubtedly drenched in pink goo, officer. First, he needs to determine what this goo even is.
“Batman, no!” Matchmaker cries. “Come back!”
Nightwing drops down from the roof and into the spotlight of the streetlamp, finally making his entrance.
“Batman can’t come to the phone right now. Care to leave a message?” Nightwing asks with a smile. It’s a dazzling one. Part of his strategy. Incredibly effective. Even Bruce feels disarmed by it.
“I don’t like to brag,” Nightwing says with a conspiratorial hand cupped to the side of his face, “but I can do a pretty good impression of him.”
Nightwing forgoes his preferences for kicks. He leaps forward and punches Matchmaker square in the jaw.
Which, yes, is a pretty good impression of him.
There’s no one around to see Batman smile, so he does.
Bruce turns his attention back to his mission. The chemical analysis on the goo is completed. Some novel synthetic substance. Harmless to flesh, but supremely sticky to concrete and brick and other surfaces. It stands to reason that a low-level focused-intensity laser will be the best course of action. It’s better to carve through the heart delicately. Bruce fishes the Batlaser out from his utility belt and gets to work.
“Interlopers!” Matchmaker howls, clutching his face like a child being bullied on the playground for the first time. “This is between me and the Bat!”
“Tt. You’re the interloper!” Robin drops down beside Nightwing. It is impressive how much disdain such a small body can radiate, “He doesn’t even know you.”
“I am trying to introduce myself!” Matchmaker stomps his foot.
“Well, pal,” says Nightwing, twirling his escrima stick, “and I say this as a friend, you’re not doing a good job of it. Could’ve used some more workshopping.”
“Your outfit violates the Geneva Convention,” Damian adds, utterly stone-faced.
Bruce closes his eyes. Stephanie just had to teach that boy hyperbolic internet vernacular. By the time Nightwing and Robin are done quote unquote roasting the Matchmaker, Batman will be ready to join the fight himself.
“Robin’s right,” says Dick, hanging his head in feigned disappointment. “We all like the hot pink but the heart shape schtick? Little tired, don’t you think? Check the giant clock, pal.” Nightwing points up at said giant clock on the Clocktower. It’s fifteen minutes past midnight, February 15th. “Valentine’s Day is over.”
The Matchmaker lets out an undignified cry. “Love obeys no calendar!” he hollers, hosing down Nightwing and Robin.
They disperse easily. Robin jumps high, landing safely on the streetlamp. Nightwing cartwheels out of the blast range, laughing all the while. He’s untouchable. The acid merely melts a few shop signs. Dick can make even the most dangerous stunts look like child’s play.
“Come on,” Nightwing goads, still upside down, balanced on one hand. “How can you ever hope to waltz with the Bat if you can’t tango with me?”
“I’ll show you dancing!” Matchmaker shifts a lever on his hose. The goo that sprays out is thicker, more viscous. It is still as pink as Pepto Bismol. Worse smelling, too. A cross between potpourri and the perfume section of a department store.
Nightwing smirks. He’s succeeded, as he so often does, at getting under the enemy’s skin. The Matchmaker is solely focused on him now. That leaves Batman free to finish his rescue and Robin able to sneak into the jewelry store and do retcon. The intercepted police alert spoke of no hostages but one can never be too careful.
Bruce allows himself another small smile. Dick’s distraction ploy is as familiar and comforting as a cup of Alfred’s Earl Gray tea. It reminds Bruce of simpler times. When the world was just him and his bright, bouncing Robin.
The hardened goo makes a promising crack. It reveals another layer of hardened goo.
Letting the laser do its work is tedious. Bruce can’t resist watching Nightwing instead. He could watch Dick work for hours and never tire of him. Of his grace. Nightwing continues to evade every angry shot fired at him. The Matchmaker has at least three types of pink goos and none of them stick. At this point, it’s more dancing than fighting.
Dick uses his performativity as a weapon. The Matchmaker is a long-range opponent. He’s been relentless about using his sprays to keep Nightwing at a distance. But slowly – and clearly without Matchmaker’s notice – Nightwing has been inching closer and closer to him.
“If you’re gonna be a gimmick villain,” Nightwing says, as he flips onto Matchmaker’s shoulders, “you gotta be quicker to the draw.”
“Wait, hey – !”
Matchmaker lets out a disappearing little cry as Nightwing rips his hose from the canister strapped to his back. In the scuffle, his heart-shaped goggles fall off too. They break when they hit the ground.
Matchmaker shows his pinched and freckled face to the world.
Facial identification pulls up his entire background on his cowl lenses. Lubor ‘Lubby’ Láska. Distant Czech descent, Metropolis born and raised. Married to high powered executive Janice Cockburn, rumored to have taken the fall for her company’s Ponzi scheme. Made an example of and sentenced to Blackgate, now out on parole for good behavior. Bruce assumes he was radicalized into supervillainy during his stay. Clearly not radicalized enough, based on his operation tonight. Gotham’s going to eat him alive.
Above them, Bruce sees the shadows ripple in the lamplight. It’s a telling pattern, a signature of those trained personally by Ra’s al Ghul.
Robin.
No hostages, then. Bruce allows himself a small smirk. Gotham won’t have the chance to devour Láska. His son is going to eat this fool alive first.
Another victory. All layers of the pink concrete finally give with a satisfying crunch. The heart splits neatly in half. The sight is comical, almost Looney Tunes-esque. Luckily, one heart broken is enough to yank the car door open.
Officer Diego Ibarra, his cowl tells him. His father, Officer Luis Ibarra, died in the line of duty in Solar City when he was a child. Moved to Gotham in high school, signed up for the police academy right after graduation. Very wet behind his ears. Seemingly good enough intentions. Bruce hopes he lasts.
“You’re safe now,” says Batman, pulling the man to his feet. He barely looks old enough to shave.
The officer gapes up at Batman, awestruck. It makes Bruce uncomfortable. But it’s better than the alternative. GCPD makes powerful allies and even more dangerous enemies.
“Thanks, Bats,” Ibarra says, finally. “Do you need back-up?”
Bruce spares a glance back towards the fight behind them. Damian has unsheathed his katana. Dick is less fighting the Matchmaker and more so throwing him like a ball to his batter, Damian, who is all too eager to swing.
Bruce levels the officer a flat look.
“Right, yeah, you guys got this. I’m just gonna,” he points his thumb to the left and takes off running. Bruce watches until he’s sure the young man has made it down the block.
Not a moment too soon, either.
“Enough!” Matchmaker tears off two pomegranate sized red hearts from his belt and launches them at Robin and Nightwing. They avoid them easily, but by sheer luck one of the grenades lands on the Nightcycle.
“My baby!” shouts Dick, dismayed.
The motorcycle is fairly bomb resistant, but even it can only survive so much at close range. It will take Dick at least a month to rebuild it.
A dark shadow crosses over Dick’s handsome face. “All right, that’s it, no more Mister Nicewing.” In a single breath, his posture shifts into something dangerous. His escrima sticks flash on with thrum. Bruce can feel the electricity of them jolt down his spine. Dick’s intensity is always a marvel to behold.
Nightwing descends on Matchmaker like the bird of prey he is. He strips Matchmaker of the rest of his grenades, throwing the belt of hearts to Robin.
Batman stands back, observing. He promised Dick, when he’d returned the mantle to Bruce and agreed to stay in Gotham as Nightwing, that he would treat Dick like a solo hero. An ally, not a sidekick he always had to rush in to save. No hovering and no micromanaging, were Dick’s exact words.
But old habits die hard. When Matchmaker reaches into his back pocket, Bruce delivers the warning unthinkingly.
“Nightwing!” It’s only after he’s said it that he realizes it was a tactical error. Dick has a decade of experience. If his head was in the game, he would have evaded.
But Dick always gives Bruce his full attention.
Dick’s eyes turn to him, not the Matchmaker. It’s the opening the villain needs to pull out a small wand from his belt. He aims it right at Nightwing’s heart.
“Idiot, move,” Robin hisses, crashing into Nightwing with his whole body. But he’s not quick enough. All he manages to do is put himself in the blast range alongside Nightwing.
Pink liquid, gooey and perfumed, explodes from the tip of Matchmaker’s wand. The force of the blast keeps Robin and Nightwing pinned to the wall. In the time it takes for Batman to aim his batarang, the liquid dries, hardening in layers. Like sentiment deposits.
When his Batarang does finally hit its target, knocking the wand out of Matchmaker’s hand, he’s still too late. Dick and Damian are both stuck to the side of the brick building, a human wad of gum. Defenseless. Objectively, Bruce knows that the threat level is still low. One lucky hit does not make Matchmaker any less of a fool. But, still, Bruce’s heart pounds out of his chest.
One of them captured is intolerable. But both of them…
He can’t lose his family. He won’t. Not again.
Bruce does what he always does. He turns his fear into resolve. It solidifies within him, focuses to a fine point. He needs a plan to take down the Matchmaker in the most effective manner possible. And targeting his family has also earned Láska pain. The plan emerges in his head, complete and thorough.
“Batman!” Matchmaker walks towards him, jubilant. “I did all of this for you! To meet you! To earn your respect and devotion! We are destined enemies!”
Bruce glowers. Pathetic. Each one of these wannabes always thinks that they’re Batman’s ‘destined enemy’. Bruce is willing to bet his fortune that, even now, Láska is just a stooge. It’s far more likely his wife has stepped foot into supervillainy, and Láska is merely along for the ride.
“Now the time has come!” Matchmaker continues to shout unnecessarily. “Now you must face me!”
“He’s already facing you,” Nightwing calls out, exasperated. The exact pattern of his squirming tells Bruce that he has found his laser and is in the process of freeing himself as they speak. But Bruce knows from experience how long lasering out of that goo takes.
Bruce cracks his knuckles. This will be over quickly.
“Hey!” Matchmaker whines, swiveling his head back around to Nightwing. “I will not be heckled by my hostages!” And he pulls out a second wand and blasts Nightwing and Robin with it. He gets barely one extra layer on before a second batarang knocks it out of his hand.
Matchmaker laughs, triumphant, even though he’s failed. His laugh is terrible. A parody of a supervillain. Overproduced.
“God, we get it!” Nightwing continues his heckling. “You don’t need that many ha-has.”
“If I hear your vile laugh one more time,” Damian vows, “I will rip your larynx from your throat and feed it back to you.”
Batman doesn’t sigh, but inwardly, Bruce does. He knows the boy means that. Matchmaker, intuitively, seems to understand that it’s no idle threat, either. His pale skin has gone stark white.
Bruce takes the opening. His punch recalls Nightwing’s earlier impression of him: a right hook square to the Matchmaker’s jaw.
Matchmaker crumbles to the ground like a toppled house of cards.
“Ow!” he moans from the ground, rubbing his cheek. Already the bruise is starting to swell. “Why do you guys keep doing that? I wasn’t ready yet!”
“Enough,” Batman snarls, yanking him up to his feet by his collar. “This little game of yours is over, Matchmaker.”
“Uh, uh,” Matchmaker tsk. There is a slight increase of menace from him, now that his smile is streaked with red blood. “I still hold your heart in my hands.” His heart-shaped watch flashes a bright red. “My lovely liquid is equipped with nanotechnology. One command from me and it will detonate! You can kiss your son and your beloved husband goodbye!”
That technology doesn’t sound possible.
Still. Better to treat his threat as genuine. The command could be vocal, but Bruce deduces that it’s more likely for it to be entirely controlled by the watch. Bruce severely doubts Matchmaker has enough foresight to think of a dead man’s switch. Removing the watch from his person will be simple.
Or it would have been simple, if only Bruce’s mind had stayed in what Dick calls ‘detective mode’.
Bruce has trained his mind to hear the most important information first. It’s essential to the work he does as Batman. Gotham’s villains are a whiny, often repetitive lot. The trivialities of his foe’s speeches only hit him on a delay.
You can kiss your son and your beloved husband goodbye!
…beloved husband…
…beloved husband…
He drops Matchmaker as if burned. The foe falls to the concrete like a sack of potatoes, letting out another pitiful moan, but Bruce is the one backing away in a panic. He’s desperate for distance. He needs to escape Matchmaker’s awful voice, repeating in his head. Haunting him. Like Damian earlier.
And like Damian, he needs to be disproven.
“What did you say,” Batman growls.
Matchmaker sits up, hand covering his watch. The watch Bruce had every opening to grab but didn’t.
“You heard me, Batman,” says Matchmaker, stroking the watch like it’s a beloved pet. “I hold your precious family in the palm of my hand. Concede defeat to me and let me leave with my baubles, or I’ll break your husband’s and son’s hearts!”
Hearing that h-word again nearly breaks his sanity in half.
He lunges for Matchmaker, grabbing him again by the collar. He shakes him hard enough to hear bones rattle.
“Who told you that?”
Bruce’s anger is so distracting, so all consuming, it blinds him. He’s careless. He doesn’t notice Matchmaker reaching in his pocket for a heart-shaped smoke bomb. As dreaded, it explodes into a heart-shaped smoke cloud.
“Ha!” In the darkness of the smoke, Matchmaker’s vile laugh thoroughly surrounds Bruce. “You underestimate me, Bats, you underestimate us all! Gotham’s underworld has known about you and Nightwing’s marriage for years.”
Batman engages his rebreather. His cowl lenses adjust for the smoke. But he still feels choked by the words, blinded by them.
Marriage?
Damian’s…Valentine’s Day confusion was one matter. His son was raised as an assassin; it’s expected that he might misunderstand some of Gotham’s cultural customs. He is, after all, still a child. Surely, he meant that Bruce should romance Dick in the same way Damian ‘romanced’ his classmates by passing out Valentine’s Day cards.
But Gotham’s entire underbelly? How? Why?
It can’t be true. Bruce refuses to accept that.
But if this…marriage truly wasn’t a well-known rumor in Gotham’s underworld, a little pissant like Láska would have never heard of it.
Bruce thrums with every color in the spectrum of shame. The deep humiliation that all of his enemies – even the most pathetic wannabes – see through to his deepest desires. And the longing, so intense it feels like a hand is choking his throat, for that to be true. For Nightwing to be…for Dick…
His wild, terrible emotions leak out of his body into his limbs, suddenly heavy and unwieldy. But still, his anger burns.
This insult cannot stand. It must be punished.
“Batman, focus!” Nightwing urges. His voice carries through the darkness, a lighthouse.
Bruce still crashes into the rocky shore.
He is focused. Focused on ringing this little cretin’s neck until he gets a detailed list of every mouth this…awful rumor has passed through. But that focus doesn’t translate into his limbs. He’s more shaken than he’s been in years. His bearings just don’t come. He lashes out wildly in the darkness, hitting nothing but smoke.
Eventually, he hits Matchmaker outside of the head.
Ugly embarrassment sets in. He didn’t even hit him directly.
Still, Bruce isn’t finished yet. He grabs Matchmaker by the throat and rushes them out of the smoke, slamming Matchmaker against the nearest brick wall.
This is where he should be threatening him, demanding more information about his criminal network, telling him that his reign of terror is over, that this will never happen again. Any number of useful, productive statements.
All Bruce can manage is growl, so gravely it’s more like a death cry than speech.
“We are not married.”
“Sorry, sorry!” Matchmaker raises up his hands in self-defense. “Your life partner then!”
Life partner. Somehow that word stabs deeper than all the others. Because there had been a time when they were partners. Dick even still calls him that now, on occasion. A dream Bruce can almost touch.
Another blow to his gut. Which leads to an actual blow. Matchmaker hits him with a tiny light bomb. His vision is nothing but a million sparkling white hearts.
The Matchmaker’s voice skips all around Bruce, flickering in his ears like the hearts flicker in his vision.
“The Matchmaker does not judge alternative lifestyles. Why, my Aunt Risa is married to a beautiful young woman herself. Love comes in many forms!”
Bruce’s vision readjusts. Slowly, the image of Dick and Damian forms. He strains, needing to see them more clearly.
“I’m sure you and Nightwing are raising Robin in a very happy home together, marriage or no marriage.” Matchmaker suddenly seems to remember that he’s a villain. “In hell!”
Bruce can see again. He drinks down Dick’s image with more thirst than Tantalus. He can’t tear his eyes away from Dick; the one vice he can never shake. He needs every bit of information, catalogs every line on Dick’s face. Bruce is as he’s always been: greedy for him. Dick’s stopped squirming, stopped trying to get free. He stares at Bruce, utterly motionless, more mortified than Bruce has ever seen him.
The reinforcement of an impossibility shouldn’t feel like rejection. And yet. Fresh shame erupts in Bruce’s stomach, like a geyser. Bruce drowns in it.
For Nightwing sake’s, he needs to rid the underworld of this terrible rumor.
“Your facts are wrong. Your sources are wrong,” Bruce howls at the world. “Nightwing is not my husband. We are not raising a child together.”
The intensity of his rant leaves Bruce panting, stops Matchmake in his tracks. There is a beat as they both stare at each other.
A fight that should have lasted six seconds still hasn’t ended. The Matchmaker is wide open. There are currently no less than sixty-five ways to take him down. Bruce should just take him down. Why isn’t he taking him down? He’s failing his family.
“Wait, really?” Matchmaker asks.
Bruce’s only glares harder.
“You’re serious!” Matchmaker lets out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Oh man, next you’ll tell me Robin isn’t really your kid, either.”
Behind him, Bruce hears the tell-tale signs of shattering pink goo.
“Of course I’m his son,” Damian hisses. “Don’t you see the resemblance?”
And then he punches Matchmaker square in the jaw.
This time, when Matchmaker hits the ground, he doesn’t get back up.
Bruce doesn’t trust himself to restrain Matchmaker and he doesn’t trust himself to look at Nightwing long enough to free him, so Robin ends up doing both. Bruce busies himself with ‘collecting samples’ but in reality, he’s licking his wounds. This has been one of the most catastrophic failures of his life.
Soon, the sound of police sirens floods the street. Officer Ibarra, head dangling out of the police car’s passenger side, leads the charge.
Batman’s job here is done. Finally.
Before he can return to the Batmobile, Ibarra catches up to him.
“Knew that loser didn’t stand a chance against you, Bats!” he says, a wide smile on his round face.
“Please, he barely did – ” Robin’s insult is cut off by Nightwing’s elbow.
Bruce is discovering new depths to the feeling of ‘shame’.
Ibarra doesn’t notice. “So where do we send this one? Arkham or jail?”
Robin snorts. “Who cares?” Dried pink goo has settled in the crevices of his uniform’s hood, making it unusable, and Damian all the crankier for it.
“Arkham,” says Bruce. It’s not even a question. Any man who would dare call Nightwing Batman’s beloved husband to Batman’s face clearly needs to be institutionalized.
Nightwing places a gentle hand on the officer’s shoulder. The pink goo still caked all over him has done nothing to make him any less princely.
“I’d let the Commish call this one,” Dick says, kindly.
Ibarra gazes at Dick, a barely concealed swoon. “You got it, Nightwing,” he says, only just swallowing a stutter. Dick has that effect on people.
Romance. If anything, Ibarra’s the type of man that should –
Bruce turns his back on them all, cape swooshing crisply against the night. Bruce’s anger is still a livewire, pulsing underneath his skin. He needs to be in his car. He needs to feel the thrum of her engine underneath him. He needs things to make sense again.
Robin and Nightwing follow him into the Batmobile.
Damian claims shotgun. On another night, one where Bruce was more collected, he might have simply tossed the boy in the backseat himself. But Bruce is distracted by other thoughts. And Dick spoils the boy. Damian drips pink goo all over the Batmobile’s smooth leather upholstery. After he buckles himself in, he crosses his arms tightly across the chest, so furious he practically sinks into the seat.
Dick enters the backseat quiet as a mouse. He makes no attempt to joke about their situation despite it being rife with pun potential. Nor does he make any attempt to cheer up Damian and Bruce’s dark moods. He peels off his mask – the goo was starting to harden around the edges – and merely stares out the window. It’s second nature for Bruce to tilt the Batmobile’s rear view mirror to see him better. Dick’s normally bright blue eyes are cloudy. A flooded riverbed.
It is evident that he’s hurt Dick feelings somehow.
Bruce doesn’t know what he’s done or how to fix it. If it even can be fixed.
He’s ruined everything. As always.
It is now officially Saturday. After patrol tonight, Dick, Damian and Bruce were supposed to watch a movie together. It’s Dick’s turn to pick. He created this tradition nearly a year ago, when Bruce first returned from his time travels. At the beginning, Bruce was wary of how it would impact their sleep schedules. But the tradition has proven itself to be a success for team bonding, especially with Damian. And anything that kept Dick in the Manor for just a little longer was a success in Bruce’s book.
Family movie nights with his son and his…Bruce knows there’s no hope of that now.
Dick will take off running the first chance he gets, as he always does when Bruce hurts him. Bruce won’t stop him. Dick should run.
Beside him, Damian’s glower only grows darker, while Dick’s expression grows only more morose.
The Batmobile is silent all the way home.
Finally, they arrive. The Batcave opens its mouth for them. Damian jumps out of the car, practically before it’s fully finished stopping. He sprints off towards the showers without a single word.
Bruce doesn’t bother unmasking himself. He still has a report to write. Better to relive the humiliation of tonight now with the security of the cowl on and just be done with it.
Dick lingers. Instead of rushing to the showers, he begins wiping the pink gunk off his face with a wet wipe. A shower would be more efficient, but Bruce concludes that Dick intends to give Damian his space. Even when so clearly in low spirits himself, Dick always puts the needs of others above his own.
Once finished with a light clean up, Dick removes his armor. Slowly. He assesses each piece of equipment for damage. It’s a task that will keep him here for a while.
He’s not running.
Bruce swallows. His heart flutters, like a bird ramming itself against a windowpane.
Alfred is upstairs, currently occupied by a mild cold. They are alone in the Batcave.
It’s the perfect opening.
Bruce means to reach out. Desires to. But words fail him. If he could touch, then perhaps…but it’s too risky. His touches, even the simple ones — a grip on the shoulder, a hand brushing Dick’s wavy hair — would betray him. Being near Dick is a calling and a curse. It had been impossible to understand, for the longest time, how Dick could ever question the…affection Bruce has for him. It’s only recently that Bruce has come to admit that there is a gap between what he feels and what he communicates.
But how can he communicate what Dick means to him? The touches he longs most to give are not allowed.
Dick is only a few feet away, but he might as well be on Mars. The distance is too great to cross.
Well. He’s been a coward all night. Why break the streak?
Bruce turns away and stalks toward the showers.
He doesn’t make it three steps before the emergency walls come crashing down.
Huge slabs of concrete reinforced with steel slam down instantly. Only the fastest of all the speedsters would have been able to escape them before they closed. Bruce programmed them that way. All around them, three feet thick walls cut Bruce and Dick off from the garage, the armory, and all other auxiliary rooms in the Batcave. Trapping them. They are confined to the Batcave’s atrium.
Batman and Nightwing are beside each other and battle ready in an instant. Back-to-back, they can take on anything.
“Do not panic,” Damian’s voice rattles from the Cave’s intercom system. He is suspiciously calm. “Everything is under control.”
Bruce and Dick both whip around to face the giant monitor. Damian’s face has taken over the entire Batcomputer. His disapproval glares down at them brightly, an executioner’s spotlight. There’s a hint of calculation in his green eyes that makes Bruce’s blood seize up in his veins.
“Report!” Batman demands, at the same time Dick says, at a much lower volume, “Damian, what’s going on?”
“Grayson,” Damian acknowledges, purposefully not acknowledging Batman, which only makes Bruce seethe more. “This cannot continue.”
A million worst fears race through Bruce: a shapeshifter has replaced Damian; mind control; Talia; Talia with a mind-controlled shapeshifter Damian. There is no shortage of horrible things that could be happening.
“Both of your performances today were disgraceful.” The Cave’s echoes the hiss of Damian’s word, adding dramatic effect to his sneer. Because that’s what his youngest son needed, access to more drama.
But Bruce refrains from replying just yet, even if he must quite literally bite his tongue to keep from doing so. This is the time for analyzing. He’ll have the rest of Damian’s life to punish him.
“Ouch,” says Dick, miming a dagger to his chest. His expression is hurt but still good-humored. “Little harsh there, buddy. What’s got you feeling that way?”
Once more, Bruce is in awe of Dick’s patience.
Damian crosses his arms, leans back in his seat. In the background, Bruce can make out two decorative blades hung on the wall and a sheet music stand. Damian is clearly at his desk in his bedroom. He hacked the Batcave’s mainframe from his bedroom. Oh, that boy better pray he’s being mind controlled.
The pout on Damian’s face only makes him look younger. It adds to the sheer absurdity of the situation. “As if it isn’t obvious,” the boy complains darkly.
Both Bruce and Dick stare up at him. They are twin faces of confusion.
Damian lets out a frustrated little growl. “You! You two are the biggest obstacles to the mission. If you both weren’t such children about this, we would have beaten Matchmaker in mere seconds!”
“Damian,” says Dick, more forcefully this time. “What are you talking about?” He’s still infinitely gentler than Bruce, who feels about ready to growl at his son right back. If this is leading where he thinks it’s leading…
“You and father’s relationship.”
“We don’t have a relationship!”
Bruce’s yelling sends the bats flying. Cut off from the rest of the cave, they can only swarm around Dick and Bruce in a fury. Once they’ve calmed enough to return to their roost, a new Dick stands besides Bruce. His shoulders are hiked up nearly to his ears; his face so pinched it’s as if he’s chewing glass.
As always, one look at Dick, and Bruce regrets everything.
“Of that kind,” Bruce adds behind gritted teeth. It’s a sad attempt to soften the blow. This time, at least, his volume does not disturb the bats.
“No.” Damian leans back in his chair. Calculating. This is the perils of having a biological child. Bruce knows that face too well. He’s seen it on his own face far too often. “Despite your obvious commitment to each other and positively pathetic mooning gazes, it’s becoming apparent that you do not.”
Next to him, Dick mouths ‘mooning?’ in disbelief.
“It’s ridiculous. Utterly unacceptable.” Damian lets out a beleaguered sigh. Despite barely coming up to Bruce’s waist, he has the countenance of a long suffering CEO. “As always, it falls upon my shoulders to correct your mistakes.”
At his words, more walls drop down in front of the current walls. Quarantine walls. Lead walls infused with Kryptonite. Walls enchanted by Zatanna to prevent any form of magic from passing through them. Contingency plan after contingency plan comes crashing down. Bruce’s own preparation work, used against him.
This isn’t just a trap; they are being imprisoned.
Now, Bruce really does growl. “Damian.”
“Silence, father, I am doing what needs to be done!” Damian proclaims, with all the passion of his mother, who would also do something this insane. “Neither of you are leaving that cave until you confess your feelings and agree to be wed!”
What.
“What!” Dick spurts out a noise that is less human language, and more a chipmunk dying.
“Let us out this instant, boy!” Bruce thunders.
Damian matches Bruce blow for stubborn blow. He narrows his eyes just as Bruce narrows his.
“Not until I see a ring on Grayson’s finger.”
Dick lets out a breathless, dazed, “Oh my god.” He crouches down to stabilize his wobbling feet. He looks ten seconds away from melting into the floor.
“Damian,” Dick, still crouching, lifts up his head, “we don’t even have a ring…”
That’s what Dick thinks to say to this?
Damian’s lips curl into a pleased grin.
“Luckily for you both,” the boy preens, “I have thought of everything.”
The whirring of machinery grabs both Dick and Bruce’s attention. The Batcave is equipped with many features in order to make butlery easier. One of them being a pneumatic tube system connected from the kitchen to the Batcomputer’s desk. Alfred hardly ever uses it, old-fashioned as he is, but it has proven useful on occasions. Bruce watches in horror as instead of a comforting cup of tea, a ring box rises up from the table.
Dick’s given up on crouching; he’s fallen flat on his backside.
If Bruce didn’t feel electrocuted to the ground, he might have fallen flat on his ass with him.
“Well,” Dick says, looking up at Bruce with a loopy laugh. His face has a sheen of sweat to it. If Bruce didn’t know better, he’d almost think Dick was drunk. “No one can ever argue that he didn’t inherit your flair for the dramatic.”
Bruce turns his most heated glare on Dick. It doesn’t last. Soon, Damian is speaking again.
“As you can see, I’ve already provided a ring. My grandmother’s engagement ring will suit you wonderfully, Richard.” On addressing Dick, Damian’s face softens ever so slightly.
Normally Damian’s affection for Dick is the boy’s only redeeming quality. Now, Bruce can see even that has damned them.
Bruce storms towards the desk. He snatches the ring up with more force than necessary. And yes, it’s true, there lies his mother’s engagement ring. Unlike the wedding ring she had worn daily – a simple silver band with a tasteful arrangement of diamonds – her engagement ring is a gold band with blue sapphires. More ornate and whimsical. It’s much more suited to Dick’s tastes.
Menace. Bruce can’t let Damian get into his head. How did he even – Alfred, Bruce realizes immediately. Alfred’s hands are involved in this, too. The second he gets out of here, Bruce’s grounding the both of them.
Bruce pockets the ring. It feels like a live grenade in his belt.
“Damian, buddy, don’t you think this is a little extreme?” says Dick, slowly standing to his feet. “No one wants a coerced proposal.”
Bruce grinds his teeth so tightly he just might swallow them. Obviously, Dick is approaching Damian with an appeasement tactic, but Bruce cannot understand how he can be so blasé about such a rank betrayal.
Damian simply waves his hand. “Father’s extreme obstinance required extreme intervention.” Then he narrows his wicked eyes. “And don’t play innocent with me, Grayson. You are not guiltless, either. I saw the search history you deleted. Apartment listings in Chicago?”
Chicago?
Despite all the chaos of the night, it’s that word that makes Bruce’s heart plummet out of his body. He whips his entire body around to stare at Dick. The blank, bloodless look on Dick’s face tells him everything he needs to know.
Dick plans to leave him. Again.
Of course, Bruce had been preparing for this inevitability the whole time. Dick never stays. They were partners. Past tense.
Bruce intends to take out his anger on the Cave’s security system and Damian, in that order. He takes a seat at the Batcomputer and begins typing, furiously. Every click of a key carries all the aggression of his fiercest punches.
Damian’s smug voice wafts through the Cave. “I’ve already anticipated all your moves and countermoves and planned accordingly. So don’t even bother trying to escape, it’s futile.”
Bruce pauses only to glare daggers at Damian’s giant visage, and returns to simply hacking harder. He hits firewall after firewall, his own contingency plans once more used against him. It will take him a week to hack the Cave back from Damian at this rate. He could contact his other allies, but this situation is so humiliating, Bruce can’t stomach the thought of aid.
Determination crystalizes in Bruce. He’ll have to free Dick and himself by himself.
Another error message flashes at him. This one is a cartoon robin – clearly in the style of Stephanie Brown's drawings– sticking its tongue out. Bruce’s fist slams down on the desk and breaks the mouse. How deep does this betrayal go.
“Hopeless,” Damian declares, with haughty but sad shake of his head.
Bruce snarls, but Dick’s voice overpowers the sound.
“Okay,” Dick says. “Okay, you’re right, Damian. There are definitely some things your dad and I need to discuss one-on-one. But how are we supposed to do that while your Eye of Sauron-ing us?”
Damian’s face turns thoughtful, considering. He brings an aristocratic finger to his chin.
Dick’s shaky smile grows. “Why don’t you raise up the walls and let me talk to your dad upstairs?”
“Your skills in deception are improving, Richard,” says Damian, with genuine pride in his voice. Then, he smirks. “But you’ll always be transparent to me.”
An uncomfortable jealousy erupts in Bruce’s stomach. Dick’s face often looks so skillfully blank to him. That, or so tumultuous with emotion Bruce never has any hope of deciphering it.
“Still, I see the logic in your point. Very well,” Damian reaches out of frame and clicks something. “I am disabling the audio feed. I can no longer hear you, but don’t grow overconfident, my eyes are still everywhere.”
All the other smaller monitors and cameras in the Batcave’s atrium glow ominously. Once again, Bruce is struck by the knowledge that his son could very well grow up to be the most dangerous criminal this world has ever seen.
For this act of terror alone, Bruce is already willing to declare him his ultimate archenemy.
“Besides,” says Damian. “The gestures of a marriage proposal are evident unto themselves. And trust, I have no desire to listen to Father fumble his way towards a love confession.”
Bruce's patience snaps. He yells things that would have Alfred washing his mouth out with a bar of soap.
Damian smiles. “Oh, I like this. I should mute you more often, Father.”
The sound of Dick smacking himself in the face echoes throughout the Cave.
Bruce bares his teeth in a furious snarl. Damian sticks out his tongue back. It's a harsh reminder that Bruce is being bested by a child.
“Utterly hopeless,” Damian repeats, eyes glaring down at Bruce. “You should be thanking me, Father. This is my gift to you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
The video feed cuts out.
Bruce is left alone with his fury. The buzzing of the static of the monitor mirrors the buzzing of his thoughts.
“Ha, oh man,” says Dick. His easy humor has never sounded so strained. “Kids these days, amirite?”
Bruce is too furious to even berate Dick for his ill opportune sense of humor. His mind is needed elsewhere. He immediately gets back to work pounding commands into the Batcomputer. There has to be something he's missed.
A hand squeezes his shoulder.
“Okay, big guy, take a deep breath,” says Dick from behind him. “You’re not doing your blood pressure any favors.”
His vitals are fine. It’s his child who’s the problem.
“We’re not in danger,” Dick assures him. “Damian isn’t in danger. This is just,” Dick searches for the right word, “a prank.”
A prank.
“He’s imprisoned us.”
“He’s done the ten-year-old vigilante equivalent of locking us in the closet. What, you’re gonna ship him off to boarding school for that?”
Bruce only wishes he could send Damian to a boarding school. But there’s no institution on Earth that could handle him. Clearly, Bruce himself can’t even handle him. He’s been too lenient. Not enough discipline. That boy is going to scrub the entire Cave clean with his toothbrush by the time Bruce gets his hands on him.
Dick peeks over Bruce’s shoulder. The tip of his nose touches Bruce’s cheek. He’s near enough that Bruce can smell his real scent under the perfume of the goo: vanilla, sandalwood, and sweat. Dick’s hand on his shoulder begins to rub. His touch is firm, warm. An action meant to make him less tense succeeds in only tensing him further.
“Okay, Miss Hannigan,” Dick says, “enough revenge plotting. Let’s try to focus on the matter at hand.”
Bruce shoots Dick a dirty look. It is intended to express his displeasure over Dick’s choice of comparison. Dick merely arches a single, knowing, eyebrow.
“B, come on. How long have I known you? Do you honestly think I can’t recognize your punishment face?”
Bruce growls. So what if his face reflects a desire for punishment. This situation calls for as much punishment as possible. For all parties. By his estimation, this is partly Dick’s fault, too.
Bruce doesn’t voice that thought, but Dick reads it on his face regardless.
“How is this my fault?” Dick exclaims. Backing away from Bruce in anger and taking his hand with him. It’s a relief and a loss all at once. “I’m trapped here, too!”
Bruce growls again. He’s frustrated. Not just about this false imprisonment but this whole wretched night. Why is Dick only capable of reading his thoughts when he’s furious?
Dick puts his hands on his hips. Now that the thought has been put into his head, the comparison to a sitcom housewife arrives unbidden. Bruce stares at Dick’s hands – his long fingers, rough with callouses. His ring finger looks very bare.
“You need to calm down,” Dick warns. “We’ve been in situations a lot worse than this.”
“Have we?” Bruce snaps. “We’re being held prisoner by our son!”
Dick’s cheeks turn a dusky red. It takes an intense blush to show up on his golden complexion.
Bruce’s words play back to him. A blush forms on his own cheeks too. Bruce sinks back into his chair, humiliated and furious.
“Hey, it’s not the end of the world.” Dick walks back towards Bruce; his steps as airy and light as a ballet dancer. “You and I both know that without triple Bat verification codes, there’s a forty-eight-hour time limit on the lockdown.”
Dick’s too trusting of their comrades. That failsafe is not dependable in these circumstances. Who knows how many of their allies Damian has turned against them.
Again, Dick reads his thoughts on his face. “B, there’s no way Alfred’s gonna let us languish here for two days. I’d wager he lets out by the end of the night.”
Dick’s demeanor shifts. A nervous energy infects him, making it impossible for him to stand still. “Damian’s upset, and he clearly has the wrong idea about us.” Dick’s fidgeting only worsens. “But, honestly, I don’t think even he will keep us locked down here all night. Let’s just wait it out.”
“Wait it out.” Bruce hopes saying it out loud himself will reveal Dick’s logic to him. It doesn’t.
“Yeah, you know.” Dick laughs nervously. “Think about it like camping. A staycation. We still have access to the Batcomputer. Maybe we could solve some cold cases? It could be fun.” Dick shrugs, another nervous tell. “Like old times.”
Old times. They spent many nights down here together. It was work, but Bruce doesn’t remember it that way. He just remembers the peace, the companionship. Bruce was never lonely when Dick was his Robin.
The picture Dick paints, he makes this nightmare sound like a dream.
Righteous anger beats through him, forcing Bruce to his feet. He leverages both his regained height advantage and the fact that he is still suited up while Dick is dressed down to intimidate the younger man. He crowds Dick, glaring down at him.
“Are you enjoying this?”
Dick’s jaw literally drops. “What?”
“You are. Unbelievable,” Bruce sneers. “You expect us just to waste away here at the whims of a child. Do you have any idea what could happen out there in two days? Even two hours? Do you not care?”
“Do I not –”
Dick swallows his fury. Quite literally. Bruce is transfixed by the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing. Dick squeezes his eyes tightly shut.
When Dick opens them again, the fury there wounds Bruce more deeply than any blade.
“I was saying that there are worse things than being trapped together.” Dick’s tone is pure ice. There’s no music there, only an overly practiced even-handed tone that has become a staple of Dick’s adult anger. “Sorry you don’t feel the same.”
Bruce is furious at Dick for twisting his words. He is even more furious at himself for hurting Dick.
“This isn’t about us,” Bruce says, “This is about Damian’s behavior.”
“It’s a little bit about us,” Dick challenges. He crosses his arms, inclines his chin upwards. A tactician’s pose. Although he has taken off most of his armor, he is very clearly still Nightwing and all the danger that entails. Bruce feels stripped bare by his gaze.
“You don’t want to wait it out, fine. Let’s tackle it head on.” Dick steps closer. Too close. “Because Damian’s right, Bruce, we were sloppy tonight. I know why I was. Why were you?”
Bruce stops breathing.
Despite accusations made by many different people in his life, Bruce isn’t oblivious to ‘reading the room’. Reading the room is a choice, a luxury, and he often has other priorities. But he is still a detective. Bruce knows what Dick’s implying.
He wishes he didn’t.
This is supposed to be behind them. Dick’s not a teenager anymore.
Unsettled, Bruce relents. He turns his head away from Dick, watches the monitor’s static.
“I let my anger distract me.”
“But why were you so angry?” Dick asks. The search for understanding melts his previously icy anger. Dick’s compassion cleanses all that it touches.
Bruce wants to be forgiven, but his crime is too great. His jaw pulses from clenching it so tightly. His gaze sinks to the floor.
“Is the idea of being married to me really that awful?” The words have a forced mirth to them, but Dick’s discomfort is clearly visible. All his nervous energy comes back. Dick grabs his own arm, pulling it close to him, searching for protection.
Bruce is hurting him now. He knows it. He can see it. But the answer would only hurt Dick worse.
Because, yes, Bruce does want to marry Dick. The same way he longs to have held Damian as a baby, or for the world to be so without suffering Joe Chill never would have turned his gun on Bruce’s parents. Simply stated, he longs for the impossible. Marrying Dick…it’s a lotus eater dream. So enticing, a pretty trap. It would ruin them both.
Bruce’s throat is dry again; language forever an empty well inside of him. He can’t look Dick in his eyes. He’s too ashamed. He’s supposed to be stronger than this, desire.
A weight presses on the top of his head. Dick’s hands, reaching for him; he’s finished crossing the distance between them.
“Hey, take the ears off?” Dick asks, tugging at the cowl by said ears. “I want to talk to the man, not the Bat.”
The man has never wanted to talk less.
Dick pulls the cowl off of him, anyway.
“There you are,” says Dick. His smile is radiant. No other kind of hypnosis could leave Bruce so transfixed.
Dick strokes the flared arch of Bruce’s eyebrow, the crest of his cheekbone. His touches are delicate, soothing. Bruce closes his eyes. He tries to imagine what it would be like to be this gentle.
This level of affection is not out of place for them, but in light of their current circumstances, Bruce is beginning to understand how Damian came to such a fundamentally wrong conclusion.
His next words pain him. “You have to stop this, Dick.”
Bruce grasps Dick’s hand. Removing his touch is only possible by stealing this one. Dick doesn’t yank his hand back. He always trusts Bruce, even though Bruce so rarely deserves it.
“These childish displays of affection…they’re confusing Damian.”
“I don’t think Damian’s confused, Bruce,” Dick says. “And you’re the one holding my hand.”
Bruce drops it as if it’s scalding.
He turns his back on Dick as quickly as he can. It’s impossible to think around Dick when he gets like this, all bright smiles and gentle touches. He’s too distracting. Bruce needs distance. But there’s nowhere to go. Not with all these walls blocking the exits.
“Well, clearly there’s something wrong with the boy!” Bruce hisses, searching for something to sink his anger into. “He wants us to get married.”
“But you can understand why he wants that, right? Having two homes is hard for any kid, even Robin.”
Of course Bruce understands it. The only negative to Family Movie Night is that it ends with Dick taking Damian to spend the rest of the weekend with him at the Penthouse. Dick has no real parental rights over Damian, but Bruce operates as if he does. He understands that separating Damian permanently from Dick’s care would have been an unforgivable cruelty to them both. But that doesn’t make it easy. That doesn’t make Bruce happy to do it. He still doesn’t understand why Dick can’t just live with them at the Manor. But when Dick first offered the custody arrangement, he agreed. At the time, getting Dick to stay in Gotham at all had been a big enough victory.
“Yet you plan to move even further away.”
He hasn’t forgotten what Damian said about Chicago. Nor forgiven.
“I’ve thought about it,” admits Dick.
He doesn’t sound guilty in the slightest, which only creates more anger in Bruce’s guts, heavy anchors weighing his body down. He’s thankful that his back is still turned so that Dick can’t see his face.
“I’m not Damian’s dad, you are. Sometimes I think I just…” Dick exhales, “get in the way by being here.”
“No,” says Bruce, whipping around so fast the cape cracks the air. “Never.”
Dick’s so startled by the words, his lips part in a soft gasp. Wide-eyed, he trembles slightly, as if he dare not believe it.
After all this time, how could Dick still not understand. Bruce wants him by his side forever.
Idiot, his mind sneers, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Damian, you have to say it.
So he does.
“Stay.”
It’s barely a whisper of a word. And still it breaks his throat like a shout. He’s carried this word in him for so long.
Dick’s expression – no, his entire body – melts.
“Bruce…”
Dick’s rushing towards Bruce immediately, arms reaching out. It’s second nature to grasp Dick by the hands, to pull his partner closer to him.
“It’s Damian who’s the problem. We’ll straighten him out,” Bruce swears, squeezing Dick’s hands tightly. The life they have right now, Bruce isn’t ready to say goodbye to it. It’s as close to a dream as is possible. “Get back to normal.”
Dick clamps his eyes shut, inhales deeply through his nose. A meditation technique. Bruce’s words were clearly the wrong ones, if they made Dick resort to using said technique in the middle of their conversation.
Whatever Dick says next, Bruce knows he doesn’t want to hear it.
So Bruce doesn’t let him speak.
“I’ve solved it. This…prank, it’s Damian’s bid to tie you to Gotham. Once he sees that you have no intention of leaving,” Bruce’s eyes burn with determination, “he’ll relent.”
“Will he?” Dick lowers his gaze to their intertwined hands, brushing his fingers over the knuckles of Bruce’s gauntlets. There’s no possible way for Bruce to feel that touch. And yet he does. It reverberates through his whole body, a punch to the jaw.
“He’s stubborn, that kid.” Dick finally looks up. He gives Bruce a weary, but fond, smile. “Like his father.”
“He will,” Bruce insists. “We’ll teach him. We can’t have him thinking of us in that way.” He says the words out loud to remind himself, to strengthen his own resolve. “It’s disgusting.”
Dick’s face crumbles. “Ouch. Spare a guy his feelings, huh?”
Bruce feels Dick withdrawing. He clutches Dick’s hands even tighter; this time, Bruce refuses to let go. They’ve been here before. Bruce is determined to change the ending. Dick can get over his crush. Bruce can ignore his desires. They can put this ridiculous fantasy to bed and get back to being a real family.
But, first, Dick needs to stop changing the subject.
“This isn’t about your,” saying the next words are pure agony, “romantic potential.”
There’s something terrifying about the expression on Dick’s face, how open it is, how bare.
“Isn’t it?” Dick asks.
“Don’t,” Bruce warns.
“We have to talk about it! Our mooning gazes are so bad Damian can see them. Damian.” Dick throws their joined hands up in the air. “Christ, B, we’re mooning right now!”
Bruce flusters at the implications. Physical touch is how Dick communicates. He was merely attempting to speak Dick’s language. He drops Dick’s hands.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Bruce retreats back behind familiar, well-guarded, emotional walls. His posture straightens. His voice could freeze Gotham Bay. “I raised you, Dick.”
That’s the line. Nothing changes that.
“Oh, yeah, because the legal nuances of wardship matter so much to the kid raised in a death cult,” Dick bites back. Frustration has energized his whole body with more stubbornness. “And you didn’t raise me,” Dick snaps, “My parents raised me. Hell, Alfred raised me.”
Bruce bristles at that rejection. He knows he’s failed Dick in so many ways. But those early years together…they mean the world to him. He’s never more lost than when it seems that Dick doesn’t feel the same.
Dick closes in on him. He reaches out again, this time for Bruce’s cheek, returning to the place Bruce had removed it before. Something underneath Bruce’s skin sings. Dick never stays away for long.
“But me and you?” Dick says. The anger is gone from his voice. Bruce dares to think it’s because Dick’s touching him. “We raised each other.”
The truth of that statement makes Bruce close his eyes.
This isn’t what was supposed to happen. His mind returns to a dark place. If he hadn’t been such a fuck-up back then, could he have fixed this? Stop this in its tracks before it ever started?
An alternate future unfolds before his eyes. He adopts Dick, raises him not as an orphan on respite from the orphanage, but as his own son. When Damian comes into his father’s care, Dick is just his beloved older brother and not his pseudo stepparent.
It seems like a nice world. Uncomplicated.
Untrue.
“I was your mentee, Bruce, not your kid,” Dick goes on to say. “Do you really see me as your son?” Dick’s own disbelief colors his words.
I see you as mine, Bruce thinks. I’d rather you be my son than nothing else.
“We’re family,” is all Bruce can actually say.
“There are lots of ways to be a family.” Dick grins, clearly remembering some old joke. “Alternative lifestyles, right?”
Bruce’s snort surprises even himself.
But Dick has that magic about him. He makes the whole world lighter. Brighter. Makes Bruce believe that anything is possible, as long as they are together.
Again, the dream takes hold of him.
A formal partnership. A permanent one. Bruce and Dick, standing in front of all their family and friends, vowing to be with each other forever. What would Dick’s smile look like on their wedding day?
No. Bruce fights off the dream, crashes headfirst into cold, hard reality. Dick’s smile is just as much of a trap as this sealed off Batcave. Dick makes it all look so easy. He doesn’t respect the gravity of the situation. The scandal in the newspapers, the disapproval of their allies. It goes far beyond alternative lifestyles. Dick can’t just smile away all their problems.
“This isn’t a joke,” Bruce spits. He tries to yank his head away, but Dick forces it back. Bruce has no choice but to look at him.
Dick’s gaze is hard. “Just because I’m smiling doesn’t mean I’m not serious. You know how I feel about you. You’ve always known.”
What a wretched thing to say. Dick never expects omniscience from him, except with regards to Dick’s own feelings. But what does Bruce know about the man in front of him?
He remembers the boy. The lonely, grief riddled adolescent with a schoolboy crush. It disgusts Bruce, even now, how tempted he was by it. Dick’s devotion. It was sweet enough to get drunk on. But he couldn’t allow someone so young to chain themselves to Bruce’s sinking ship. He was the older party. He had to be responsible. When Dick turned eighteen and dared to address the tension head-on, Bruce rejected him soundly. They never spoke of it again. A month later, Robin died. From his ashes, Nightwing was born.
Even more time has passed now. The Nightwing in front of him has survived even more grief, borne the burden of Batman’s cowl. Bruce has seen Dick rebirth himself time and time again. Can he really say he knows any of the men Dick is, anymore? How can Dick assume that of him?
No. That’s not true.
The weight of Dick’s hand on his face is a reminder to be honest.
When Bruce looks at Dick now, he doesn’t see a boy. He sees an excellent teacher, able to coach Damian through techniques Bruce had given up on in frustration. He sees a brilliant strategist, a leader all heroes aspire to be. He sees a kind soul. Dick always takes the newest Batarangs, breaks them in, and then slips them into Bruce’s utility belt. He never mentions doing it. He just does it because he knows Bruce prefers them slightly worn.
Dick’s ‘romantic potential’ isn’t the problem. Loving Dick is the easiest thing Bruce has ever done.
It’s him. Bruce is the problem. Time hasn’t solved any of the ways in which their relationship would be fundamentally doomed because Bruce is fundamentally doomed. He’s a paranoid loner. Incapable of communication. The only commitment he’s ever seen through is waging an eternal war against crime.
Dick blossoms.
Time has only made Bruce harder to love.
They’re more incompatible now than they were ten years ago. Bruce will never deserve him.
The truth of it strips Bruce raw. He can only hang his head in shame.
Dick continues to caress him.
“If you don’t want to be with me because you’re not in love with me, I’ll understand. I’ll get Damian to back off,” Dick says. The words make Bruce’s heart clench.
Dick’s left-hand joins in caressing Bruce’s face. This one combs up through his hair, more intimate a gesture than Dick has ever risked before.
“But I don’t think that’s why.” Dick’s eyes are a kind interrogation, searching Bruce with a compassion he doesn’t deserve. “I don’t think you have a good reason for not wanting to be with me. I think you’re afraid.”
Dick steps even closer.
“And I get it, I do. I’m petrified.” He lets out a small breathless laugh. He’s nervous. So close together like this, Bruce and Dick share trembles.
But Dick isn’t like him. When faced with fear, Dick leaps.
“Bruce, you’re the bravest man I know,” he says. The words are nonsensical. Bruce’s brain shuts off. The whole world is just Dick’s eyes, poppy blue and all-encompassing. “You make me brave. Can’t we…can’t we be brave together?”
The only word for Dick’s smile is resplendent. To even think of describing it further would require poetry.
Bruce’s siren and siren’s call. Dick is dangerous in his optimism. He makes it sound so easy to kiss him.
Bruce has to resist. There are a million and one reasons why they can’t be together, he just hasn’t found them all yet. Bruce scours his mind. Over and over and over again. He only finds Dick’s lips.
Until he replays back Dick’s earlier words.
“You’ll get Damian to back off,” Bruce repeats. Betrayal is a familiar emotion; it gives him an anchor to reality, stops him from being rushed out to sea by a dream. His eyes narrow to slits. “You’ve been encouraging this behavior.”
“What?” Dick all but shrieks. His hands drop from Bruce’s face like two vases shattering on the ground. “That’s your takeaway from this? I just confessed my love for you and you’re worried about Damian’s prank?”
Firstly, Dick did not confess his love. He only asked Bruce to confess his. That’s entirely different. Dick’s framing of their conversation only makes Bruce more righteous in his anger. Anger is comforting. If there’s nothing else left, Bruce can hide behind anger.
“I trusted you to be a good role model for him.”
Dick’s expressions twist into so many different displays of shocked, confused, and offended, it leaves his mouth gaping like a fish.
Bruce carries on. “And yet you’ve been encouraging these…delusions.”
Dick’s face settles on offended. Extremely offended. Cartoonishly offended.
“Oh, encouraging is a hell of a stretch.”
“Enabling, then.”
Dick’s disgust reaches a breaking point. “You – you asshole. Do you ever think about anyone else’s feelings for longer than two seconds? I didn’t want to break his heart!”
Dick’s rage is explosive. Capable of leveling a city. But it is quick burning. It flickers out of him as soon as it appears. Its absence leaves him exhausted. He stumbles backwards, limps uncharacteristically graceless.
“God, look at the mom he got saddled with.” Dick drags his hand over his face. “I just…you and I got happily married parents, even if it was just for a little while. Damian’s never had that. And he never will. Not with you and her.” Dick looks up at Bruce with a plea in his eyes. “If he wanted to think that of you and me, how could I say no?”
Bruce retreats back in shame.
He – he never thought of it that way.
He knows that Dick is a parental figure in Damian’s life. He has weekend visitations, he attends Damian’s school conferences, patrolling schedules include Nightwing and Robin as often as they do Batman and Robin. It’s evident that Dick and Damian are close; Dick always seems to know more about his son than he does. And, when that thought didn’t make Bruce lonely, it made him greedy. Dick’s such a good father to his child, how could Bruce not dream about making Dick his husband?
It just never before occurred to Bruce that Damian might want that dream, too.
“I’m sorry.” Dick’s limbs give out. He slumps against the quarantine wall that blocks the atrium from the garage. “I didn’t think it would get this big.”
Dick draws his knees up to his face, hiding away from Bruce.
Bruce longs to comfort him, but his feet are welded to the floor.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was happy with the way things were,” Dick says, too softly. It’s not right on him. His voice was never meant to be sad. “It was just our silly daydream.”
Dick’s words pierce Bruce’s chest.
Bruce understands, now, why the myth of Cupid is so enduring. There is only one way to describe Bruce’s sensory experience at the moment; there’s an arrowhead in his heart.
This sensation – it’s like nothing Bruce has experienced before.
Dick had confessed his love as a teen. It had been flowery, overwrought, filled with too many grandiose statements of devotion. Bruce had lusted after it, but he never believed in it. Over the years, he’s hidden behind many excuses. And, perhaps, at one time, some of those excuses had been legitimate. But they are all so meaningless now. Dick is no longer a teenager in his care; he’s a grown man nearing thirty, a better Batman than Bruce will ever be, and the father of Bruce’s son. There are no excuses left to hide behind.
Except the most important. Bruce has always coveted Dick’s love more than he’s trusted it.
Bruce doesn’t find himself loveable. How could he ever trust that Dick does?
It’s strange. How something as small as that ‘our silly daydream’ nearly a decade later could make him believe in Dick’s love.
Dick loves him enough to daydream about him. A weightless feeling bubbles up in Bruce. Something akin to intoxication, or giddiness. Oh. It’s hope.
It’s a ridiculous thing to affect him so deeply, but Bruce can’t deny that it does. He dreams of the same thing. He wants a world where they can raise their son together. He wants a world where Chicago doesn’t exist, and every night, Dick falls asleep in Bruce’s bed.
It’s starting to take root in him. Dick’s dangerous optimism. It’s growing inside of Bruce into a new perspective.
Dick asked him to be brave.
He finally understands what that meant.
Bruce wants this dream more than he’s afraid of it.
His hand slips into his utility belt, finding the smooth case of the ring box. He strokes his thumb over it, again and again. It’s a gentle touch. A courageous one.
Bruce wants Dick Grayson to be his husband. He wants to be married to the man he loves.
It’s Bruce’s turn to cross the distance between them.
Dick still sits on the floor, back against the wall, knees to his chest. His eyes are closed, starving off tears. As beautiful and sad as a tightly closed flower bud.
Our silly daydream. It’s not just Dick and Damian’s, but Bruce’s, too.
Bruce offers up his hand.
Exhausted, Dick barely looks up.
“I don’t.” Bruce repeats back Dick’s words. “Have to break his heart.”
Dick is a detective. Bruce waits, as he deduces. As he decides.
An extended hand has never made Bruce feel so vulnerable. But it’s Dick turn to be brave; his turn to trust Bruce’s love.
Dick’s eyes open up, clouds parting to reveal the endless blue sky.
“Or mine?” Dick asks.
Bruce swallows. He knows he already has.
But he can make a new vow.
“Or yours.”
Dick reaches out for Bruce’s hand. Bruce is closing his fingers around Dick before he’s fully finished the action. He pulls Dick off the ground and into his arms. Dick leans into his touch easily, resting his full weight against Bruce. He pulls back only enough to stare at Bruce’s face. Awe-struck.
In love.
Bruce knows his face is a perfect reflection.
Bruce leans down, presses his forehead to Dick’s forehead. It’s a tentative touch, but intuitively made. Feels right. Dick fits perfectly in Bruce’s arms.
He’s been such a fool. Fighting fate this whole time. Clearly, they were designed to fit together like this.
“For real?” Dick asks, so softly his lips barely move. “Not just to get us out of this mess.”
“Dick,” Bruce says his name like the dawn breaking. He rubs his forehead against Dick’s. “You’ve always been my heart.”
Something electric jolts them both; a feedback loop of a mutual fantasy coming true. Bruce can feel them both being overwhelmed by a shared thought: this feels like a dream one wrong touch could break. And yet, all Bruce desires are touches. He wants to kiss Dick so badly. Has always wanted that. But he’s never known how to do it, not even when Dick asks for it.
Emergency alarms scream around them. The Batcomputer roars back to life, static disappearing into angry, flashing, bold letters. KISS, YOU IDIOTS.
Dick bursts out laughing.
His joy makes Bruce swoon. Nothing in the world is as beautiful as Dick Grayson’s smile. The sight is even more glorious up close. Bruce brings his hand to Dick’s dimples, caressing them, just because he can finally can.
The affection shocks Dick to coyness. He blinks more rapidly, eyelashes dark and full. Beautiful.
“Wait,” says Dick, breaking them both out of their stupor. “You don’t think Damian heard all that?”
Bruce inclines his head to the camera systems. Only the red-light blinks. “Visual feed only.”
Bruce can feel Dick’s sigh of relief. Watches how his full lips pout. It’s intoxicating, being this close to him. He wants to be this close to him all the time.
Bruce, gently, tilts Dick’s head up. Because he’s allowed. Because he wants to look.
“Well,” says Dick, smiling beatifically, “we better not keep our audience waiting.”
Dick, exquisite little genius, reaches behind Bruce and flips the cape over them. It drapes them in some much-needed privacy. In the darkness, Bruce can focus on what matters most. Dick’s mouth, soft and eager, opening up for him.
They move like one body.
Bruce could stay here, cocooned from the rest of the world, for eternity. But another desire is more urgent.
Bruce presses the ring box into Dick’s hand.
“And this too?” Bruce whispers in his ear, heady already from Dick’s sweet kiss. He wants to claim him everywhere.
Dick tugs off the cape like a bride removing her veil. He cradles the box in his palms. So many emotions flit over his face; Bruce tries to name as many as he can. Disbelief. Wonder. Fear. Hope.
“We don’t really have to do this part,” Dick assures him. “Not if you’re not ready.”
Bruce cups both his hands around Dick’s face, as Dick did with his mother’s ring. Underneath Bruce’s palms, Dick is equally small and precious.
“I won’t do this halfway, Dick. I want forever with you. The next time some lunatic calls you my husband,” Bruce all but growls the next words, “I intend for it to be true.”
Dick’s laugh is better than windchimes, better than the sweetest dream.
“Yes, yes!” he says between laughs. “Definitely, yes!”
Bruce slides his mother’s ring on Dick’s finger. A bone deep peace unfolds within him, a gentle breeze rolling through a wildflower meadow. It fits Dick perfectly. This, too, is destiny.
Bruce wraps his arm around Dick’s waist, pulling his fiancé close. He drapes the cape over them once more. Dick’s lips return to him, even sweeter this time.
A cacophony of noise celebrates their engagement. The emergency walls rise up, the Batcomputer reboots, and the bats swarm, eager to return to their proper roosts.
Bruce and Dick are right where they should be. Neither of them have any thoughts of leaving.
The wedding announcement isn’t a surprise to anyone. At breakfast the next morning, Alfred smiles, but it’s a smug smile. Bruce is more certain than ever that Alfred was the angel investor in Damian’s little scheme.
His ledger of debts to his oldest friend continues to grow.
Telling the rest of the family is a joy.
Bruce never dared to imagine that it could be. He’d been so caught up in his own fears, his own doubts, he had projected them onto everyone else. Amongst his children, the reactions range from “Fucking finally” (Jason) to “Oh, like a vow renewal? Is it your guys' anniversary or something?” (Tim) and a thumbs up (Cassandra). Stephanie promises to buy him the shittiest toaster she could find as a wedding gift, but she says so with affection.
They tell everyone they can, which is another joy in and of itself. When Dick tells the story, he says they were engaged on Valentine’s Day. It makes Bruce chuckle, every time.
Their closest allies take the news well, too. Most of them assumed they’d eloped years ago. Even Clark tells them that he thought Nightwing and Batman were already married, even though Dick and Bruce weren’t ready to tie the knot yet, a relationship set up that continues to baffle Bruce.
But far and away, Damian has the best reaction.
Bruce will never forget the look of unabashed pride on his youngest son’s face, when he and Dick asked the boy to be their ring-bearer.
But there can be no wedding without wedding planning.
Bruce and Dick devote almost all of their free time to it. It’s much easier now that Dick has moved back into the Manor. On drizzling Sundays like today, Alfred will light the fireplace, study, and Bruce and Dick can plan.
And, of course, Damian is never without his opinions.
“Your taste in venues needs improving,” Damian tells his father. It’s stated more as a fact than an insult, even though it is, objectively, an insult.
Bruce is starting to grow more…if not fond, than used to Damian’s acerbic wit. It helps that the boy is demonstrably more well behaved now. He’s visibly happier now that Dick lives with them. Dick says it isn’t just that, though. He tells Bruce that Damian is also happier because Bruce is around him more often now, too. Bruce can’t deny that their engagement has facilitated more family bonding time all around.
He's a lucky man.
Bruce relaxes back into the leather couch, surveils all the riches in his life. On the coffee table, many different wedding magazines, sample menus, and fabric swatches are spread out. Damian sits cross-legged at the foot of the coffee table, in front of Bruce, studying every material closely. Dick is doing handstands by the window, watching Bruce watch him with a smile on his face.
Bruce smiles back.
After a sip of his warm tea, he says, “Your great-grandparents were married at the country club, Damian.”
“Apologies,” replies Damian, with no remorse, “their taste in venues needs improving. Besides, a castle is so much more fitting, Father. Then you can be married in the gardens. Grayson will look dashing framed by the lavender bushes. Wouldn’t you agree, Grayson?”
“Hey, you know me,” says Dick. He folds over in an elegant backbend. For once, Bruce is allowed to let his hungry gaze linger. “I’m flexible.”
“And witless,” Damian remarks. “That ‘joke’ wasn’t funny the first several hundred times you told it.”
Dick’s legs extend back upward. A headstand, revealing the meat of his thighs, the full shape of him. It’s not the pun that has Bruce’s attention.
Damian shoves his bony elbow into Bruce’s leg. He looks up at Bruce, small face bursting with mistrust and warning. Bruce sighs. Dick’s hand in marriage has only gone so far in earning Damian’s affection. That’s fine. Bruce is a patient man. Besides, there will be plenty of time to watch Dick tonight, in the privacy of their bedroom.
Dick flips toward them. He fits perfectly in the space behind Damian and between Bruce’s legs. Dick’s hands fall over Damian’s shoulders, gently rocking the boy, a gesture that Dick does (and Damian allows) only when they are both at absolute peace. Bruce can’t help but smile. He smiles all the time now, it seems.
“But, really, I trust you guys,” Dick says. “I’m good with anything. As long as it’s colorful.” Dick’s eyes catch something on the table. “Oh, there’s a candelabra shaped like an elephant!”
Talk flows as easily as the rain falling. Soon, Dick and Damian are debating the logics and ethics of wedding elephants. They are casual in their intimacy. The very picture of domesticity.
And Bruce gets to be a part of that now.
Their family is a flowing circuit.
The longer they all talk, and the more ideas Dick starts rattling off, Bruce realizes he’s worse than Damian. The wedding needed to accommodate all their desires…It will need to be gigantic. Bruce’s mind races, plans, imagines. A wedding fit for his two favorite people, it would need to be something out of a fairy tale.
How thrilling.
Bruce’s smile grows larger. He leans down and presses that smile into Dick’s cheek, returning joy to its source.
It’s wonderful, their dream.