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Click.
The flame barely flickered. Small, but steady. Small, but capable of serious damage, if used correctly. Or incorrectly, Bruce didn’t know how to define it.
Click.
Bruce held the lighter tightly in his fist. He should stop thinking such foolish things. He knew the risk of serious damage he could cause, the risk of scarring, the risk of people noticing and asking questions. He knew what that little flame was capable of.
He knew it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t fix his past mistakes, wouldn’t make him a better man, a better father, a better son. It wouldn’t rid of the gnawing emptiness in his chest, the torn screams in his head. The feeling would return once more, over and over again, demanding Bruce destroy himself piece by piece.
Click.
Staring into the flame, letting its brightness sting and burn his eyes, it was almost as addictive as the thoughts of what the flame could do to him. It was calling out to him, inviting, luring, a little fire blinding him of logic and reason much like staring at the sun would blind him entirely.
Bruce knew it wouldn’t change anything. But did it have to? Wasn’t it enough that Bruce would feel just a little better, for just a moment. Was it really that much to ask for, in his life of loss and misery, that just for a moment Bruce could feel real? He could feel warm?
He needed it. God, he needed it. Something to do with his hands. Something to feel on his skin, when all his other unbearable feelings were buried deep amidst his insides. Something to feel that he could understand.
Bruce held his arm out, bracing his hand on his bedframe while the other hand brought the lighter, flame flickering with the movement, to the underside of his forearm.
It wasn’t often that Dick made surprise visits to the Wayne manor, let alone in the middle of the night. But he’d been having a rough night, okay, a case he’d started working on in Blüdhaven had infuriatingly lead him to Gotham, and he really wouldn’t mind waking up to Alfred’s cooking after a good night’s sleep. Sure, being in the same room with Bruce was difficult sometimes, but he could endure that if it meant he didn’t have to drive all the way back home or stay at a dingy Gotham motel. And, hey, Alfred’s cooking. Breakfast by Alfred always made Dick feel like a kid again, reminding him of the times him and Bruce would feast on a wide assortment of eggs, waffles, fruits, freshly baked bread, and anything else they could dream of, not minding the small amount of shallow sleep they got after patrol, because Alfred’s apple crumble made it all worth it.
Dick knew the manor’s overextensive security systems would alert Bruce of his arrival, which was exactly why he decided to drop by Bruce’s room before heading to his old bedroom. Lord knows how obsessively Bruce would begin to overthink what Dick was doing at the manor so late without announcing himself, so it was better for Dick to drop in to say hi and explain he was in town for vigilante business and would be leaving in the morning – after breakfast of course.
And knowing the insomniac that Bruce was, Dick was sure he wouldn’t be disturbing any sleep anyway.
When he slowly pushed open the door to the master bedroom, Dick expected to see Bruce in the soft light of a bedside lamp, looking through casefiles he’d childishly snuck past Alfred into his room, despite promising the butler he would actually sleep tonight, or perhaps illuminated by the moonlight, looking out of the window in classic Batman brooding.
He did not expect to see his father sitting at the edge of his bed in near pitch black darkness, the only light in the room coming from the lit lighter in his hand, held just under his forearm, no doubt in the process of giving him a second degree burn.
Dick could do nothing but stare for a moment. Bruce was visibly tense, but his arms were steady, not a single waver, not a single flicker of the flame. His eyes were intently focused on the flame, like it was a clue, like his arm was just another case, like burning it was the most crucial part of his sacred, neverending mission.
Dick squeezed his eyes shut tight and shook his head.
“Bruce, what the fuck are you doing?”
Bruce responded with a subtle flinch and a click of the lighter turning off, turning to look at Dick in the doorway.
“Dick,” his rough voice called out, quiet but accusatory, “what are you doing here?”
Dick sighed. If Bruce could ignore a question, so could he. He flicked on the light switch by the door and stepped further into the room, noticing the way Bruce blinked rapidly at the light, lips almost, but not quite, twitching into a frown.
Dick knew Bruce didn’t like having the ceiling lamps on, but he didn’t care. He supposed it was suitable punishment for Bruce doing something so stupid.
Dick walked up to Bruce, grabbing the wrist of his burned arm and yanking it away from Bruce, turning it over to look over the damage he’d caused.
As he’d expected, the skin was blistering, red and shiny. The burn area was small, but damage extensive enough that it may just leave a scar. Dick wasn’t sure.
The silence of the room grew stiffer and stiffer as Dick realized Bruce wasn’t going to pull his arm back to hide it, wasn’t grunting at Dick and telling him to leave, to mind his own business. This would all be so much easier if Bruce just acted like his usual jerk self.
If Bruce wasn’t fighting back, wasn’t trying to rebuild his impenetrable walls, it meant he was tired. Real tired.
Tired enough to... do this...
Dick kept his eyes on Bruce’s blistering skin, fighting back against his face wanting to twist into a frown, against tears wanting to well up in his eyes. God, Bruce, you’re so stupid! Why would you do this, why would you...
Dick knew why this sort of thing happened, he was no stranger to striking his own arms and legs with his fists at awkward angles in the midst of hysteric crying alone in his apartment. But Bruce wasn’t supposed to look for that kind of relief, Bruce was supposed to be better than him.
Dick knew he shouldn’t blame Bruce for his desperate attempts at handling all his pain, but blaming either himself or Bruce for anything and everything that went wrong in Dick’s life was a habit by now, and even Dick’s self-deprecating mind couldn’t twist this into being his fault. Dick knew the seeds of Bruce’s brokenness were planted long before he was even born.
“I-” Dick’s voice was already teary. Great job keeping yourself together, dick.
Bruce’s voice wasn’t much better, though not pathetically weepy like Dick’s embarrassing attempt at speech, his was hoarse and quiet, barely above a whisper: “It’s alright, Dick, just go to bed.”
Dick shook his head. Bruce was supposed to be so smart, and Dick knew he was, but sometimes he could be such an idiot, if he really thought Dick would leave him like this.
He took another look at Bruce’s burnt skin. It wasn’t that bad all things considered. Being vigilantes, members of the Justice League, they were used to all sorts of injuries, and Dick had learned to patch up himself and his friends at an early age. He could handle taking care of a second degree burn, he’d done so many times in the past.
But this wasn’t from an explosion or a rogue’s trap or a simple accident during a fight. This was...
God, Bruce, you’re an asshole, you know that?
Dick couldn’t do it. He couldn’t treat Bruce’s injuries and not fall apart, not when they were... when Bruce had... Dick couldn’t handle this by himself.
“I’m getting Alfred,” he said finally, letting go of Bruce’s arm, which fell limp onto his lap.
“Dick, no-“
He didn’t acknowledge Bruce’s weak protest, and instead reached to grab the lighter from his hand.
“And I’m taking this with me.”
Dick avoided Bruce’s eyes and walked away, stepping out into the hallway and stopping right outside the bedroom to lean back against the wall next to the door he left open. He allowed himself a grand total of two gasping breaths and a handful of tears escaping before he wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, and started heading toward Alfred’s room.
When Alfred awoke to a soft knock on his door, he took a glance at the clock on his bedside table, noting it was a somewhat peculiar time for someone to require his assistance, but Alfred had long ago learned to expect nothing usual and everything peculiar working for the Wayne estate. Few things surprised him anymore, after his master and pseudo-son had begun going out at night in a ridiculous costume to fight crime, made enemies with the most ludicrous villains, and taken in numerous children he surely would not have been allowed to keep if it weren’t for his money and charm.
He’d inherited that charm from his mother. Martha had always found a way to get what she wanted without anyone but Alfred realizing it. Sometimes not even Alfred.
Alfred stepped into his slippers and threw on a robe over his pajamas before calmly going to answer the door, grabbing the door knob just as the person behind it began to knock again.
Master Dick standing outside Alfred’s room in the middle of the night was unexpected, but not surprising. His disheveled look was typical. However, his red rimmed, wet eyes were something that caught Alfred by surprise.
“Master Dick, is something wrong?”
Alfred was unsure if the jerk of the young man’s head was more of a nod of agreement, acknowledgement, or simply an involuntary movement in the midst of his apparent distress.
“Bruce, um...” Dick started, looking down at Alfred’s slippers and his own dirty sneakers – Alfred really wished he would start wearing indoor shoes or at least cleaning his shoes better before entering the manor, as per Alfred’s previous requests – as he hesitated with his words.
Alfred did not say anything as he waited patiently for Dick to figure out what it was he wanted to tell him.
“Bruce is hurt,” Dick finally uttered, voice strained as if something still remained stuck in his throat.
Alfred nodded slowly. As far as he was aware, Batman was off-duty tonight, and while Master Bruce hid many things from his butler, he did not make a habit of going out on patrol behind his back. Master Bruce being injured was unexpected, though once again, not surprising.
Master Dick’s distress, however, did manage to confuse Alfred. Members of this peculiar family suffered a wide variety of injuries on a near weekly basis, and Dick had been desensitized to violence and blood since he was but a boy. It was unusual for him to be in tears at the sight of someone else’s hurt.
Of course, if Bruce had been in truly grave danger, the lad’s reaction would have been more than understandable. But if that were the case, Alfred would not have been woken up by gentle knocking at his door, as yelling and someone violently shaking him by the shoulders would have been much more likely.
Dick did not look Alfred in the eye as he bit his lips and lifted his hand to show him what he was holding.
A lighter.
“He was...” Dick choked out, but trailed off.
Alfred blinked at the lighter, took another glance at the young man’s face, and it started to fall into place.
Alfred wished he could say he was surprised.
Alfred was well aware of Bruce’s self-destructive tendencies. The entirety of Bruce’s youth Alfred had spent his days worrying about the boy, fearing that one day he would lose the battle against his inner demons. Fearing for his life.
When Bruce had picked up the mask and set off into the night, Alfred knew it was just another form of bringing hurt to himself, but it was a noble cause nonetheless, and Alfred hoped the pain of the fists and knives and bullets of criminals would replace the razor blades of his youth. Alfred still feared for Bruce’s life, but he had far more trust in Bruce’s ability to win battles against crooks and villains than his own demons.
Alfred was... disappointed, that his hopes of those painful days being behind them had been crushed. But few things surprised him anymore.
“I think...” Dick struggled, words sticking in his throat, “I think it’s gonna need soaking in cool water. I could-“
He interrupted himself with a choking sound, and did not go on.
Dick was a strong leader, Alfred knew that, sometimes said to be even better than Batman. But somewhere deep inside him was still a Robin, wanting to follow orders, waiting for instructions. In the most stressful of situations, even the most hard-headed Robin would listen and do as they’re told. Because they knew those orders were meant to protect, to avoid people getting hurt. In the most frightening situations, they could count on those orders to make things better.
And lord, was the boy frightened.
“Master Dick,” Alfred spoke with a steady voice, always so dependable, “will you be a dear and go into the kitchen to get the required first aid equipment ready, while I go fetch Master Bruce?”
Dick swallowed, and nodded.
“Y-yeah...”
Alfred smiled at him softly, a hand reaching up to push Dick’s hair out of his face.
“That’s a good lad.”
Alfred watched Dick make his way down the halls toward the kitchen, before he began his trek to the master bedroom, where Master Bruce must have been waiting.
As he entered the bedroom and took in the sight waiting for him, Alfred was young again with only slightly thinning hair on the top of his head, the manor was a house of grief again, and Bruce was a young boy again, cradling his injured arm and looking at Alfred with quiet shame and guilt in his eyes.
Mild soap, non-stick gauze, a container of cool water. A container of cool water, mild soap, non-stick gauze. Non-stick gauze, mild soap...
It really shouldn’t be this hard. All very basic items. Dick’s treated wounds like this before. Well, not exactly like this, after all...
Still, Dick couldn’t bring his feet to move as he stared at the kitchen from the doorway. His mind was going far too fast, all while stopping far too suddenly every few seconds, and suddenly Dick forgot what he was supposed to be doing here again.
Kitchen. First aid kit. Non-stick gauze and mild soap.
Dick moved forward, refusing to think about what he was doing in the kitchen, the manor kitchen of all places. He found forgetting all about what these items were for made it easier.
First aid kit. In the far left cabinet. There was mild soap and non-stick gauze in there.
Dick zipped open the bag, mind stopping and starting a couple more times as he looked for what he needed, and finally set the mild soap and non-stick gauze on the kitchen counter.
Yes! Mild soap and non-stick gauze.
There was something else he needed...
Soaking in cool water.
Dick lifted his forearm and looked down at it. Where the hell would one soak this? Even the biggest soup bowls here wouldn’t be wide enough. A pot would be too awkward of a shape. Filling up the kitchen sink wasn’t sanitary enough.
Dick started opening cupboards and cabinets at random, not caring to remember where Alfred likes to keep what. He couldn’t stop to think. If he did, he would remember that the reason he was here was because...
A tub! The tub Alfred used for washing the dishes! Dick stuck his arm in and cheered internally as he could fit his entire forearm in the tub with no difficulty. He wasted no time to bring the tub over to the sink to fill it up with cool water, careful to make sure it didn’t end up too cold.
The steady sound of water splashing from the faucet into the plastic tub was interrupted by two sets of footsteps approaching the kitchen. Dick turned off the water and craned his neck to see the two older men entering. The sight of Bruce made Dick remember in a flash, and he flinched, spilling a fair amount of water, though thankfully only into the sink.
Alfred paid no mind to Dick’s startle, instead thanking him and asking Bruce to take a seat. Dick and Bruce remained silent, Bruce doing as told and Dick stepping off to the side, watching from a far corner of the room as Alfred helped Bruce soak his arm in the tub before he would begin to clean the wound.
As Dick’s anger and raging grief over what Bruce had done to himself subsided, in its place grew discomfort and quiet sorrow. Dick had certainly seen Bruce injured before, far worse than this. Dick had seen Bruce tired before, exhausted before, quiet before. Dick had seen him sad before – that’s how Bruce was, more often than not.
What differed was Bruce’s lack of hiding it. Of course, Dick saw past any mask Bruce would wear, whether it be the mask of Batman, or Brucie, or Bruce being a healthy man who was fine and could handle it. Dick always saw through him, saw the minute tightening of his jaw, the subtle twitching of his hand. No matter how hard, no matter how well Bruce tried to hide his feelings and intentions, Dick could always see them.
But Dick still had to try. He had to pay attention. It wasn’t like it was hard, taking note of Bruce’s subtle cues was second nature to him, hell, more like first nature to him, but Dick had to want to know what Bruce was hiding to see it.
Now Dick didn’t want to know. It was selfish, he knew, but he did not want to know about Bruce’s suffering. He had enough on his plate as it was, and it wasn’t like Bruce hadn’t made him suffer enough for Dick to claim the right to just walk away from him if he didn’t want to carry the weight of knowing Bruce’s pain.
He didn’t want to see it now. So why could he see it clearer than ever before?
Bruce wasn’t hiding it. He was hurting, as he did every single day of his life, but for the first time ever, as far as Dick could remember, he was letting it show. He wasn’t crying his eyes out, wasn’t a screaming and babbling mess, wasn’t trembling on his knees on the floor (he wasn’t like Dick), but Dick could see it clear as day, no matter how hard he tried not to.
Bruce looked so small. An impressive feat for a man of his size, in both height and muscle, but he managed it, shoulders hunched over with shame, head hanging low with exhaustion, lips tight with remorse, and brows furrowed in pain. For a moment, Dick internally compared him to a frightened animal, but then realized no, Bruce wasn’t like a frightened animal, he was a surrendered animal, a creature who’s just realized its wounds are too great, knowing running away would do nothing but cause it unnecessary pain, so it lies down on the ground, breathing heavy, waiting for the darkness to take over so it can finally rest.
Dick choked back a sob at the thought and looked away, refusing to see his suffering for any longer.
Alfred just about managed to catch sight of icy blue eyes ridden with guilt looking at him, before Bruce noticed his glance and looked back down at Alfred’s wrinkled, dry hands wrapping up his forearm, red, blistering skin being hidden away under white gauze.
Alfred did not comment on the wound, nor Bruce’s silence. He most certainly did not comment on the guilt he witnessed bleeding from his eyes, his eyes, the only place where Bruce ever showed his emotions, even as a child who was yet to start making conscious effort to hide his thoughts and self.
The eyes were the window to the soul, Alfred supposed.
Bruce looked far too much like his father, oftentimes sounded like him too, and people who had known Thomas would never let Bruce forget about that. But what those poor souls tended to forget themselves, was that Bruce had his mother’s eyes. Martha’s piercing blue eyes, the steel blue shade cold, but the shape gentle, holding a sort of permanent sadness in them that came across as soft and tender.
The eyes indeed were the window to the soul, Alfred realized.
Bruce held a striking resemblance to his father, but he truly had his mother’s mind. Alfred recalled fondly how Martha would always astound him with her thoughts and ideas, how her mind seemed to work differently from others around her, which did admittedly result in confusion, misunderstanding, and the occasional hardship, but it was mostly a beautiful thing, a fascinating thing, one that amused and intrigued Alfred.
Alfred noticed similar traits in Bruce, how his mind went to places and conclusions most wouldn’t even consider, how he appeared to be looking at the world through a distinctly different kind of lense compared to others. Alfred wasn’t entirely sure if Bruce’s view of the world was warped, or if he saw things clearer than anyone else around him, but he supposed it did not matter. Alfred did not need to figure out why Bruce was the way he was – all he needed to do, as the butler, was to adapt to his master’s quirks and accomodate his needs, no matter how peculiar they may have seemed at times.
When Alfred unthinkingly pulled the gauze too tight, causing Bruce to flinch just barely, he was reminded of how similar Bruce was to Martha, in ways that were not so delightful.
Martha was known to be a bit of a party girl, always lighting up the room at any gala and event with her smile and her jokes, her stories and her laughter. And it wasn’t that it wasn’t the truth, no, Martha’s smile was very much real, and so very contagious. But there was another side to her, one that only Alfred and Thomas were permitted to see – sometimes not even Alfred.
Alfred remembered those days, those weeks when Martha would lock herself away, when she would barely eat, when Alfred would walk past the master bedroom at night and hear faint sobs through the door. When Thomas, too, became quieter, unwilling to speak about what was bothering his wife, insisting on being the only one to enter Martha’s space to bring her food and comfort, forbidding staff from entering the master bedroom to clean until she felt better.
Alfred was allowed in, sometimes, when Martha was feeling better but not quite enough to face the rest of the manor. When she was well enough to get out of bed and sit at her vanity, doing her hair or maybe her makeup, but never both, not in that state, Alfred was allowed to come inside, tidy up, keep Martha some company while Thomas was at work. He saw then how heavily Martha carried herself, how her usually enchanting smile was tired and strained, how she would look so guilty and ashamed as Alfred picked up after her, changing the bedsheets that were due to be washed weeks ago.
Bruce used to go through a lot of these same spells as a teenager and as a young man. Locked away in his room, refusing to eat, Alfred practically pulling him out of bed and into the shower so he could change his bedsheets. As he found purpose in Batman, these spells didn’t really happen anymore, but the sadness, the exhaustion, the despair were still there. Alfred had long ago accepted that these just were parts of Bruce. It was just the way he was, and it would never go away.
Like the colour of his eyes.
Bruce let himself be lead by Dick into the den as Alfred ushered them out of the kitchen while he stayed behind to prepare tea. Despite his state, Bruce smiled softly at the unspoken insistence that there was nothing a good cuppa couldn’t fix, an insistence he’d heard countless times in his childhood, the comforting memories glimmering just the slightest in the midst of all the darkness of his youth.
A cold pit of shame opened up in his stomach as Bruce recalled a younger butler who never set out to be a father, struggling with a child who just refused to get better, utterly ungrateful for all the butler did for him. Even as the child grew up, he never got better, only worse, and the butler would never be rewarded for the hard work he put in for the child.
Bruce tried to swallow back his guilt, determined not to lose himself in that darkness again, the darkness that lead him to seek redemption in that damned lighter. Not now.
Not in front of Dick.
Bruce watched on in silence as Dick turned on a dim table lamp in the den, struggling to reach the words he wanted to say.
I’m sorry you had to see me like that.
Dick glanced at Bruce standing awkwardly at the doorway, subtly nodding towards the couch before turning away and busying himself with something else.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be better for you.
Bruce sat down, as silently ordered, and watched as Dick searched through the antique cabinet Bruce’s father’s old record player was sitting on top of.
I’m sorry you care for me.
Neither Bruce nor Dick uttered a word when Dick finally put a record on and walked towards Bruce to the couch and sat down next to him.
It didn’t take Bruce even a second to recognize the record Dick had put on. Tchaikovsky. The Sleeping Beauty. Bruce’s favourite ballet. Something he had never expressed out loud, but Dick must have noticed from his listening habits. Even though... Bruce really didn’t listen to it that much. Not anymore.
Aside from the fact that he spent most of his time working in the cave, where he required near complete silence – aside from the occasional noise from the bats and the humming of machinery – in order to focus, Bruce didn’t listen to his old records as much as he’d used to, in part because of Dick, as a child, telling Bruce in less than kind words, that he did not enjoy the ballets and nocturnes Bruce spent his little spare time listening to. In response to this, Bruce had done what any man who desperately wanted to be a father but would never dare call himself one would, and simply... stopped listening to them. Well, not entirely, but listening to said records did get demoted from ‘somewhat regular relaxing past time’ to ‘special occasion treat, preferably when Dick’s out of the manor’. He’d wanted the boy to be comfortable, would do most anything to make him happy. It was already bad enough that Bruce had to ruin the child by loving him.
Bruce wasn’t sure if Dick putting the record on was a sign of him having learned to enjoy classical music of the romantic era as he matured, or if it was a sign of him caring, willing to put up with music that grated his ears, for Bruce’s sake.
Bruce wasn’t worth that. Not worth putting up with, not worth indulging, not worth the patience, the kindness, not worth helping or saving-
Bruce was pulled out of his thoughts by a weight on his chest, of Dick coming to lean on him, head in the crook of his neck, knees tucked together over Bruce’s lap.
He heard Dick open his mouth, breathing in like preparing to say something.
No sound came out.
Instead Dick reached one hand to Bruce’s shoulder, the one he wasn’t leaning on, and squeezed tight, turning his face to smush it against Bruce’s other shoulder, and Bruce felt a wet droplet rolling down his collar bone.
Though no sound came out, Bruce could feel Dick’s mouth moving against the fabric of his shirt, could just barely decipher the message through the sensation and the context clues.
I need you.
Bruce swallowed, and pulled one arm awkwardly from under Dick’s embrace to wrap it around the young man’s shoulders, giving a gentle squeeze and hoping to communicate to him the promise that he, not always, but right now truly hoped he would be able to keep.
I’m not going anywhere.