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Bruce looks different from the last time Dick saw him, and in the haze of post-surgery pain, he doesn't quite believe his eyes. It's been years since Bruce left, and this could very well be a fever dream, but even if his mind doesn't believe it, his body does, smiling up at the serious young man.
“You came,” Dick rasps out, grinning so wide that his jaw hurts.
“Of course,” Bruce says, sounding offended.
He sits by Dick’s bed and takes his hand. For the first time, his fingers and palm dwarf Dick’s own.
-
When Bruce left four years ago, he was already a few inches taller than Dick. Certain members of the League had ribbed Dick about it, joking how Robin’s serious sidekick had hit a growth spurt hard. “Forget stepping into your shoes—the kid won't fit into them!”
Dick could only beam with pride. His Bat Boy was growing up to be strong and capable, better than Robin could ever hope to be. At least none of the other young heroes had outgrown him. Yet.
At 17, the grave-faced boy that Dick took under his wing was growing into a charming young man—broad shoulders, edges to his young features, an impressive spread of facial hair. He had enough ego to believe himself a grown man, and none of the wisdom to know what that meant.
“I'm not a child,” Bruce had snarled, hands in Dick's hair.
Bruce certainly isn’t one now.
He's grown into those broad shoulders, thicker around the chest and waist. His jaw is strong, face stripped of baby fat, skin smooth and young, and with those vivid blue eyes he is devastatingly handsome. Dick always knew that he would grow up into a heartbreaker, but it's quite another thing to see it in the flesh and feel embarrassingly captivated. Bruce's thighs —Dick needs to stop looking at his thighs.
Bruce has grown up, and the fact of it makes Dick's head spin.
Dick remembers Bruce at eight, bright red, devastated and furious, little fists raining down on Robin with intent to harm. Dick remembers the look of betrayal on that child's face and how his cold, dead heart had cracked in two. He remembers the shy boy who showed up at Haly’s Circus with stars in his eyes.
Bruce must be embarrassed by Dick’s staring, because he frowns and looks around the apartment, as if cataloging the few changes over the years. They brought Dick’s bed down from the loft; he’s not going to be ascending ladders any time soon, if ever. With the bed squished in next to the couch, the eclectic apartment is even more cozy than normal. Bruce’s gaze snags on the shrine by the window, one more photograph propped up with the one of Dick’s parents.
“How bad is it?” Bruce asks.
Dick tries to shrug but it’s awkward with the brace. He keeps forgetting how little he can do. “Bad,” he answers honestly. “I might be able to walk again, though Leslie is cautioning me to be realistic about my prognosis. Won’t be able to start physical therapy for another six weeks.”
Bruce makes a sound like he’s been punched in the gut. He shuts his eyes tight, like that means he can hide from the world. “I should have been here.”
“Hey, now,” Dick says gently. “He came out of nowhere. It’s not your fault.”
Bruce’s look cuts deep. “I left you.”
Dick’s chest aches, but it’s a soft hurt. He could never be angry that Bruce left; he couldn’t even regret it. Bruce needed to go out into the world, learn from other teachers, and find himself. Dick missed him terribly, yes, but he never wanted to keep Bruce trapped by his side.
“You’re here now,” Dick says with a smile.
-
Bruce is apparently here to stay through Dick’s recovery. By day, he nurses Dick, bringing him food, maintaining his medication schedule, and helping him with almost everything else he needs. Dick draws the line at the bedpan—he has some dignity left. For that, he depends on the home nurse who checks on him twice a day. Bruce decidedly does not like her, merely because she's a stranger in their space. Some things never change.
At night, Bruce goes out as Robin. Gotham needs Robin’s presence to keep the various underworld players from getting too cocky, and Bruce is determined to shut Bane down. Who knows if Bruce makes a believable Robin. Robin is flighty, constantly moving, a blur of red, green, and yellow in Gotham’s dingy streets. Not many know exactly what he looks like, so Bruce can get away with his larger frame. His personality is what will really expose him as a stand-in, but Dick has faith that he can bring out that dry sense of humor and dizzying displays of acrobatics.
Bruce learned from the best, after all.
He's not happy about working with Cardinal, which is too bad, because Dick forbade Tim from going out on his own, and Tim is just as stubborn as Bruce.
Seeing Bruce wear his colors—very form-fitting colors—makes Dick feel warm and odd in a way he is trying very, very hard to suppress.
He didn't expect to feel like this.
There was always a magnetism between them, but now it feels like Bruce’s gravity is drawing him in by the chest.
When Dick is sick of lying in his own sweat, Bruce helps him sponge down. Dick can do his own face, neck and arms, and comb dry shampoo into his hair. Thoroughly and tenderly, Bruce washes his feet and legs, pausing at every unfamiliar scar and bruise, as if he's collecting them. His hands are sure, firm, massaging the knots of muscle.
Dick’s nerves are half-numbed below his waist, and when he does register Bruce’s touch, it's hot as fire. Not painful. Not when it’s Bruce.
“Bruce,” Dick warns as he pushes the hem of Dick’s gym shorts up, sponging the top of his thighs. Dick sounds out of breath, cheeks colored in a way it hasn't been since surgery.
“Trust me,” Bruce breathes.
“I do,” Dick says immediately. “But… the nurse can…”
“The nurse can? But I can't?” Bruce stares him down, but he does stop, to Dick’s relief.
“It's not the same.”
“I thought you wanted us to be platonic.”
Dick makes a noise, like choking on his spit. He doesn't need to respond to that provocation. “I’m gross down there,” he breathes out.
“Mm.” Bruce squeezes Dick’s hand, skin a little wet and soapy. “Please. Let me do this.”
Dick squeezes his hand back. He looks away, and nods.
Bruce slides Dick’s shorts down and cleans his hips and the crease of his thighs. He handles Dick’s genitals very carefully, and doesn't linger. Dick still twitches and aches in his hand. “So you can feel,” Bruce murmurs, voice low and pleased.
“Don’t get any ideas, kid,” Dick says.
“I would never.”
Dick glares at him. Bruce smirks back.
When they're done, Dick is exhausted as if he’s gone through an ordeal. Bruce looms over him and cups his jaw, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Are you ready to take me seriously now?” Bruce asks.
Dick wants. Before, when Bruce was just a teen, it was abstract and easily dismissed. Now, the wanting is urgent. He loves Bruce so much, and—Bruce deserves so much better than him. Dick mentored him since he was a child, and Dick knows that some of Bruce’s infatuation is his own fault. They had to trust each other deeply as Robin and Bat Boy, and that kind of trust was intimate, binding. Dick is still twisted up inside by what the Court did to him—what they made him do. Dick can't give Bruce the life and family that he wants.
"I..." Dick needs to say something—to express everything that he's got locked up deep inside.
But he wants. He wants.
"Please," Bruce asks, so gently.
Dick tips his head, exposing his neck. "You can..."
Whatever he meant to say, Bruce takes the invitation. He leans in, and kisses Dick on the mouth—so different from all those years ago when he was a fumbling young man. His mouth is soft, sweet, giving.
Dick kisses him back, closed-mouth. At least, for now, he can have this.