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This was a mistake, Dick realizes in the middle of a gala, Bruce's strong arm wrapped around his waist.
Picking up the phone was probably his first misstep, but he was sitting on his bed in an empty dorm room in an empty residence hall with his RA rapping on his splintering door, telling him it's his last warning to clear out. He was debating the pros and cons of breaking into and exploring the old warehouse he discovered on the outskirts of town when his phone started ringing, loud and bright. The familiar, personalized ring tone did nothing to stop the cramp in his stomach, the pang of something in his chest, when he read the name on the screen. He cursed to himself because Bruce Wayne really does have eyes everywhere, doesn't he? Everything is his doing, a well-orchestrated plan going exactly his way, and you really can't ever escape.
And Dick really wasn't going to answer, but the stupid fucking RA was yelling about getting housing services involved for a dorm Dick wasn't even coming back to next semester, and he was so cold, and maybe that's why his fingers were shaking as he pressed the green button, shouldering the phone up to his ear.
That sad, lonely, utterly desperate Bruce—the one with the low voice muttering please, come home, Dicky, please, I'll be so good to you, please, I need you right into the receiver, right into Dick's ear—from that morning is nowhere to be found tonight. This Bruce—Brucie—was dazzling with his slicked back hair and charcoal grey suit. Alfred had managed to convince him into wearing a colored tie, a red and green striped thing Dick picked out for him his first Christmas at the manor. In all his years, he had never once seen it again, and it took him a few years to get over the hurt of knowing Bruce threw away his first gift. It would've made little Dick's world if he got to see the gaudy fabric knotted around Bruce’s throat. Now, it just makes him sick.
Dick hasn’t been to a gala since he was twelve and some saucy socialite made a casual comment about Bruce being generous (and naively foolish) for “taking in a little circus monkey”. Dick didn’t really know how to respond, mildly stupefied that someone would even have the audacity and very indignant about the snipe at his parents’ profession. Luckily, he didn’t have to reply as the woman was removed from the event (with her career mysteriously tanking a month later), and he himself was whisked away.
Standing in his own stuffy suit and listening to Bruce glad-handle a Gotham city council member for information about the city budget, he can’t really say he missed it.
He at least entertains himself by seeing how many people he can catch staring. So far it’s been fourty-three, and Dick wants to ask what they’re thinking about Bruce Wayne with his hands all over his freshly eighteen-year-old ward. He can see it in their eyes, the whispers that almost feel like fingertips reaching out to caress as they circle around the ornately decorated room.
When he catches number fourty-four, he pulls away from Bruce, mentioning something about another canape, and all but flees towards the refreshment table. It’s a smörgåsbord, really, and Dick relaxes against it, grateful to get a moment of respite. Without his attention being occupied by some unctuous politician trying to get monetary backing for their great, big, shiny campaign, Dick can really take in the room.
To put it lightly, it looks like Christmas vomited all over the room. Silver and gold tinsel draped everywhere. Fake holly adorning all of the tables and mistletoe hanging over every door. Candy canes crushed and sprinkled on the desserts and in drinks and their color scheme painting dresses and ties around the room. Though, nothing stands out more than the 20-foot fully decorated and shining Christmas tree in the corner of the room, complete with (probably) fake presents underneath. It’s all tacky, but it still hits deep, reminiscent of his early years at the manor when he and Bruce would hang up the paper snowflakes they cut out and drag the tree from the attic. The letters to Santa and stuffed stockings and big Christmas breakfast buffets Alfred stayed up all night preparing. Before.
Distracted by the melancholy of the past and chomping down his fifth little slice of olive slathered toast, Dick fails to notice Bruce slide up next to him until he's pressed up close behind him with his hands finding the divets of his hips like they belong there. For tonight, he guesses, they do.
“May I have this dance?” he murmurs in his ear, too close, breath fanning against his flushed cheeks. Dick doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to because Bruce takes his hand anyways, leading him to makeshift dancefloor that Dick’s pretty sure wasn’t there before he was accosted.
The present song bleeds into a softer, more familiar one:
I really can't stay
Baby, it's cold outside
I've got to go away
Baby, it's cold outside
Bruce pulls him close, making sure they’re pressed together from head to toe. He slings his arms low on his waist, forcing Dick to stretch and wrap his arms around his neck. They lazily sway in circles, neither knowing what else to do but managing to stay off of each other's toes. It’s nearing the end of the song when Dick feels Bruce’s hand start to wander, slipping under the back of his jacket and fiddling with the waistband of his slacks, fingers dipping slightly. It’d be so easy for him to slip a hand down the back of them, would be such a Bruce Wayne thing to do.
Dick remembers sitting in his room and burning up, waiting for Bruce to get back so they could go out on patrol and staring at the tabloids. He never had to flip very far to find what he was looking for; no one ever missed the chance to publish exclusive photos of the billionaire, especially vivid portrayals of him tucked into a corner of a party with his hands up the dress of a Russian ambassador’s daughter or the hottest supermodel on the market or whoever it happened to be that week.
He’d always lock himself in his room after, refusing to talk to Bruce until the next morning when he’d be woken up with homemade french toast sticks and freshly squeezed orange juice (undoubtedly made by Alfred) and a broken lock on his door they’d have to replace again. It’s embarrassing, really, how quickly he’d always folded.
This evening has been-
Hoping that you'd drop in
-so, very nice
I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice
The flash of a camera pulls him out of his dwellings harshly, and he wretches himself out of Bruce’s arms with almost as much strength. It’s too late, though. It’ll be him gracing the cover of the tabloids tomorrow, his picture posted on every gossip blog. This week, it just happened to be him.
“I’m going back to the manor,” he mutters, and he’s heading for the exit before Bruce can even respond. He knows he’s following him, though; he’d never let Dick just walk away.
The Gotham streets are empty except for soft blankets of snow when he steps outside, and he almost wishes he hadn’t disregarded getting his coat out of the cloak room in his rush.
“And how were you planning on getting home when I have the keys?”
Dick sighs, his breath curling through the frigid air. He watches it rise until it dissipates and then gets distracted by the few stars he can see. “I think I’m going back to New York soon.”
It’s a lie, really. He doesn’t ever plan on going back to the shitty dorm room with his nosey roommate, but Bruce doesn’t have to know that. He doesn’t need to know where Dick decides to go. He’ll find out anyway, but it won’t be Dick’s doing.
It’s silent for a few minutes, and Dick doesn’t dare turn around and look at Bruce. He knows what he’ll see: Bruce’s crumpled expression, his disheveled hair where he’s ran his fingers through it, the light flush on his cheeks. He never shows any fucking emotion until it’s time to manipulate someone, make them feel bad or coerce them into doing something. Dick’s sick of it.
“Why?” Bruce breathes out, voice cracking, and Dick sighs again. Fuck.
“Can we just go back to the manor? We can talk about this later. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
He can hear Bruce shifting in the snow before he whispers, “Yeah, let’s go home.”
˖⋆ ˚❆. ݁₊
Jason is already in the bed, in Dick’s old bedroom, when they stumble into Bruce’s room, pants being kicked off and ties slung over doorknobs. Dick wants nothing more than to shower and fall into bed, but Bruce has other plans, guiding him until his back hits the wall. He can’t stop him and say he doesn’t want it because he does. His cock fills for Bruce the same way it did his first time ever getting hard, and Bruce knows because he always knows everything.
He slides his hands down Bruce's hard chest, pushing lightly. “Bruce, stop.”
Bruce's dark eyebrows draw together, confused. “But you want this.”
“You don't want this.”
Bruce's face relaxes, and he leans down to mouth at Dick's jaw, trailing kisses down the side of his throat. “I always want you, Dicky. Always, always.”
Dick tilts his head to the side, eyes fluttering closed at tickles of Bruce's warm breath on his skin. “You have to patrol.”
“That can wait. You're more important.”
Dick squeezes his eyes tighter, swallowing down his whimper and the prickling in his eyes and the burning in his chest. “Of course. How could I forget?”
Bruce leads him to the bed and makes quick work of taking off their clothes and laying out Dick on his Egyptian cotton sheets. He takes his time taking him apart with his mouth, leaving bites down his pale skin that he laves over with a flick of his tongue and some kisses. One's that'll be there tomorrow and the next week for Dick to stare at in the mirror and poke; the only evidence this ever happened. He takes one of Dick's nipples in his mouth and sucks on it, teasing with his teeth, working the other one over with his blunt thumbnail. Dick arches up into his touch, hands flying to grip at his dark hair.
He's fully hard by the time Bruce makes his way down to his cock, flushed a deep red and leaking all over his stomach. Bruce blows on it lightly, smirking when it makes Dick's hips buck, and then he's tonguing at his slit, sucking in his tip with hollow cheeks. Dick tightens his grip on Bruce's hair, tugging to help bite back his groan. Bruce nips at his thigh in retaliation.
“Hey, no, let me hear you.”
“What about Jason?” Dick murmurs, cheeks hot and eyes watering.
“It’s okay. He can’t hear from his room. You never did.”
And Dick wants to argue, to snap of course I fucking did; I heard all of it, but he swallows that down with a deep moan when Bruce swallows half his cock down, letting his head fall back into the pillow.
“Fuck, Bruce.” He can't stop the sudden thrust of his hips, but Bruce just takes that, too, allowing Dick to fill his throat. He rocks shallowly into the tight squeeze, whining when Bruce hums around his cock. “Oh, God, Bruce, I'm gonna- fuck.”
He cums down Bruce's throat with a shudder and a keen that echoes around the room, no doubt seeping into the hallway from where the bedroom door is left half shut. He can't bring himself to care as he lays limply against the pillows, rung out. He's coherent enough to stop Bruce when he stands, reaching for him until he notices his dick resting softly against his thigh.
Bruce laughs, sharp and empty, all Bruce Wayne again like he's in front of the cameras. “That's what I get for living until old age,” he explains like he isn't just thirty-something, like he doesn't manage to run through a new clique every other weekend.
Of course, he can't get hard for Dick; he's fucking his son just because he knows that's the only thing that'd make him stick around, and isn't that sad?
“Go take a shower, and I'll have some hot chocolate waiting for you in the sitting room.”
Dick doesn't try to drown himself under the scalding stream as he scrubs Bruce's touches off of his body, but it's a close thing.
˖⋆ ˚❆. ݁₊
The third floor sitting room is the one decorated, a lit and dazzling Christmas tree in the corner complete with wrapped presents on top of a little tree skirt Dick's never seen before. He's stood frozen in the middle of the room, taking in the embroidered stockings (Bruce, Alfred, <i>Jason</i>) hung on the mantle above the roaring fireplace, when Bruce walks in, a steaming mug in each of his hands. “It's Jason's first Christmas here,” he explains, like Dick needs anymore reason to ache to be anywhere but here. “Alfred thought we should make it a little special.”
“Right. Alfred did.”
He takes his mug and lets it singe his palms as he sits down on the couch. Bruce walks around the room turning the rest of the warm Christmas lights on and starting up the turntable, a record already loaded. It starts out crackling and then mellows out into a smooth, jazzy Christmas song that had Dick relaxing back into the cushions, exhausted.
“I missed you, Dicky,” Bruce confesses, knowing just the right moment to tear Dick right back down.
Dick closes his eyes and listens to the popping of the fire, wishing vainly for a redhot ember to jump out onto the shaggy rug and set the whole place ablaze. “Yeah?” he asks, eventually.
“Of course, I always do. I was thinking-”
Dick drowns out Bruce's plan for Dick to transfer schools and stay at the manor and commute. To work part-time, maybe, at Wayne Enterprises if he really wanted to make his own money. Could help on patrol again, maybe, like Bruce wasn't the one to steal that privilege away from him in the first place. To be here, forever.
Dick drifts deeply enough to almost miss the song changing. His grip loosens on his mug, ignoring when it pitches out of his hands and onto the cream colored rug. Bruce doesn't notice, just keeps on going and going and going with his plans and contingencies and-
I wish I knew how-
Your eyes are like starlight now
-to break this spell
Dick nods off just like that, fire-warm and hopeless.