Chapter Text
When Nightwing pries his eyes open once again, he can’t remember what day it is. With his body dehydrated and energy reserves running dangerously low, his internal clock is completely shot. It doesn’t help that he’s been suspended upside down for a few hours now. Never mind the fact that Lincoln March has already very thoroughly put him through the proverbial ringer, these last few weeks, ever since Nightwing was first ambushed and captured in that abandoned warehouse.
Nightwing had been investigating a spate of high-profile abductions. He should’ve realised earlier what he was up against – a vengeful Lincoln March with his reborn Court of Owls – he should’ve been better than to let himself get caught, should’ve been able to get out of here by now, should’ve, should’ve, should’ve...
But Lincoln March has been planning his revenge against Batman for a long, long while, and Nightwing? Is just another pawn in his grand scheme.
***
The upside, on a loose definition of the word, is that March doesn’t want him to die.
“I just want to break you down, Richard.” The mouth on the owl mask had curved up in a twisted, hideous smile. “Break you down, and build you back up into the Talon you were always meant to be. The perfect Talon for Owlman.”
And that meant torture upon torture, test upon test, each seeking to push Dick over his absolute limits. Each taking him to the brink of death and almost beyond. And Dick takes it all, takes each opportunity to stay alive. His escape attempts so far have all failed. But he’ll keep going.
Batman never taught him how to give up, after all.
***
The signal is broken. Gotham burns all around them.
It’s time for the final act.
“Everything my brother worked for, Richard. Everything will be destroyed.” Owlman turns, looking up at where Nightwing hangs, tied by the wrists to the remnants of the Bat-signal. Shards of glass press into his back, his costume is in tatters, but Dick is numb even to the heat and to the pain.
March smiles. “And Nightwing will lead the way.” He runs a hand down Dick’s bare skin. “And when Nightwing dies, you will be reborn as my Talon.”
“He’ll—” Dick coughs, struggling to speak through his parched throat. “He’ll stop you.”
Owlman’s smile thins out into something even nastier. “Perhaps. Maybe Brucie will save Gotham, after all. But I’ve come this far. And whatever he does, he can’t save the both of you.”
Dick just closes his eyes, and thinks, good. Not because he doesn’t want to be saved; but if it’s between him and the tens of thousands of people living in Gotham? That isn’t even a choice.
“Such devotion,” March murmurs, and Dick still has enough energy to flinch as he feels the man’s hand stroke his cheek. “Even after all he’s done to reject you. But don’t you worry, Richard. I’m here for you.”
It’s a relief, more than anything else, when he slips out of consciousness again.
***
Lincoln March’s features are uncannily similar to Bruce’s. Even with his ridiculous Owlman mask, it’s hard to miss. They share the sharp jawline, and under their respective cowls, the same arched eyebrows and dark blue irises.
But even in his most remote, alien moments, there is an unmistakeable warmth to Bruce. You can’t miss the fact that he cares too much, about everyone, at least that’s what Dick has always thought. Even if that love and protectiveness comes out in the worst ways, sometimes.
Bruce is definitely more handsome, in any case.
Owlman, Lincoln March, Thomas Wayne Jr., whatever the name of the man standing before him is? He’s just a cold, empty shell.
And here, at the end of it all, Dick’s only regret is that he might die without setting things right between him and Bruce.
***
March has his hands poised over Nightwing’s mask, ready to rip it off and reveal to all of Gotham who the man underneath is. Ready to destroy Richard Grayson, just before he destroys Nightwing.
Dick doesn’t care. Because they’ve stopped him. He can see from their rooftop vantage point that the fires are starting to go out. Batman, Robin, Batgirl, everyone—all over Gotham, they’re systematically dismantling Owlman’s plans for destruction, from the train crash to the fire. And that’s all that matters.
Nightwing smiles for the first time in weeks. Just a little curve of his lips, but it’s enough. “Game over, March,” he manages to rasp out. “You’ve lost.”
The other man snarls, activating the bombs strapped to Dick’s body—the “insurance” plan, in case things went wrong—just as a blur in grey and black comes out of nowhere and knocks him to the ground.
And Dick’s chest surges because even half-dead, he’d recognise that cape and cowl anywhere—
A scuffle follows, both figures rolling away from where Dick is strung up as they each wrestle for domination. They exchange kicks and punches, Owlman throwing in taunts and snipes as well, though it’s only when they end up near him again that Dick can hear anything.
“You may have saved Gotham, but you’re too late to save him,” March snarls, headbutting Batman to get out of a choke hold. “You were always too late, Batman!”
Batman backhands him in the mouth and follows with a harsh kick, but March scrambles back to his feet.
“And you’ll never know him as intimately as I have,” March sneers, spitting out blood.
Dick yells wordlessly, angered by the lie, but it’s drowned out by Batman’s roar of rage as he tackles March to the ground and begins to punch him with renewed ferocity.
But March isn’t some lowly opponent, he’s even bigger than Bruce, and the Court has trained him in the most brutal way. For every punch that Batman lands, he has an answering hit, and in the end they’re both bloodied, battered, and glaring at each other from across the roof.
“It’s over, March,” Batman spits out, heaving himself to his feet. “Your master plan has fallen apart. Just look around.”
“Not all of it, Batman,” March growls. He pulls his lips back in a feral, monstrous snarl. “Your precious partner will be dead when that bomb goes off in less than a minute. Shame about that. He’d have made the perfect Talon.”
Dick thinks he’s going to start on a stupid spiel about destiny, about how Dick was always meant to be a Talon, and how almost-death is the only way, but luckily for all of them, March has a better sense of self-preservation than that: he runs, instead, flinging a mini-grenade at Batman before a Batarang can stop him.
The explosion flings Batman backwards, almost over the edge of the roof, but he manages to catch himself on time. Debris falls slowly over them, and even as Dick tries to clear the ringing in his ears, he sees that March is gone. Batman’s cowl would’ve been equipped to see where he went, except he’s crawling over to Nightwing instead of going after the man.
“What are you—” Dick chokes out. “He’s—“
“Don’t care,” Batman barks out, pulling himself to his feet and immediately starting on the bombs that March strapped all over Dick’s body.
“’S not enough time,” Dick rasps, too consciously aware of the ticking seconds and what it means for him. His vision is already starting to black out. “Get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Batman—“
“I’m not leaving you!” Batman bellows, yanking out a bunch of wires. There’s a pregnant pause, each of them holding their breath to see if that’s just made things better or worse. The flashing red light indicating the detonator’s activity doesn't stop, but it doesn't speed up, either.
Batman looks up at Dick, reaching a hand up to touch his cheek. It’s an echo of Lincoln March’s vile advances earlier, but one that feels so much better. “I left you, all of you, to go after the Joker. Never again.”
March’s weird set-up must be taking effect, because Dick can feel everything start to slip away. Bruce is still talking, even as he works to defuse the death machine that Dick is strapped to, but his voice sounds far off.
“I’m getting you out of this. We’re getting out of this together, Dick, you and—“
That’s when Dick blacks out again.
Chapter Text
The next time Dick wakes up, it’s with a residual dread of where he’s going to find himself this time, and in what state. He’s half-expecting yet another apartment on the verge of collapse, in a room full of rats and leaking pipes.
It’s a stark surprise when his eyes blearily open instead to hues of dark blue and green, an elegant chandelier hanging from the ceiling and muted sunlight streaming through the day curtains by the floor-to-ceiling windows. His bedroom in Wayne Manor has always been embarrassingly decadent, but it’s both a relief and a huge comfort to find himself in his familiar four-poster bed, lying between the softest quilt and sheets, even if he's hooked up to an IV drip and vital signs monitor.
He’s been so used to taking care of his own problems and dealing with his own life, that he’d forgotten how nice it felt to be taken care of by someone else.
“Afternoon.”
His vision is still a little dark and blurry when he turns to look over, but he’d recognise Barbara’s voice anywhere—and her lovely, flaming red hair.
“Babs,” Dick manages to croak pathetically. His throat feels like someone’s taken a cheese grater to it. Luckily for him, Babs pours out a glass of water from the nightstand, and helps him drink a few sips.
“So, the bad news is that you slept through Christmas,” she says, putting the glass down.
“Whaaaat?“ Dick moans, mostly because while that sucks, a lot, it could be so much worse. This is something he can be flippant about, when it comes down to it.
“It’s Boxing Day today, so your sense of timing is pretty crap, really.”
Dick grimaces. Just as well, he didn’t have money to get anyone presents. “Your dad?”
Babs shrugs. “It’s taking a while to clean up after the renegade Owls, honestly. Dad’s been out with the GCPD most of these last few days, and most of us Bats have been running around trying to help. You didn’t miss much.”
“Still sorry I missed it,” Dick croaks anyway, and that’s the truth. “Christmas... and the clean up.”
“Well, you being alive is enough of a present.”
“Really?”
“No.” Babs smirks, and Dick rolls his eyes with a laugh. “Think it might’ve been for Bruce, though.”
Dick just stares back at Barbara in confusion.
“He very nearly went over the edge, those few weeks you were missing and we couldn’t find you.”
“... Oh.”
“Can’t say I blame him,” Babs adds softly, and Dick reaches over to touch her hand.
“Hey. ’m back now.”
“Don’t do that to us again, okay?”
And Dick can’t promise any such thing, none of them can, but he says, “Never, Babs,” anyway. That’s just what they do.
***
Happily, Dick is up and about again by the next day. At least, he manages to hobble down to the dining room to join Damian and Jason for a late breakfast. Alfred even lets him nibble some toast and have a few cornflakes with his milk.
Both boys seem happy to see him, each in his own unique way (“I see you finally deigned to get out of bed, Grayson,”), and listening to them snipe at each other over the dining table is, oddly enough, exactly the kind of thing he needs right now. It’s familial and normal and everything his life this past year hasn’t been.
When everyone heads off to do their own thing afterwards, Dick finds himself wandering around Wayne Manor, something he hasn’t done in years. He ends up on the east side balcony, crawling onto a brocade chaise lounge. Even touched by winter frost, the gardens here are beautiful.
He doesn’t quite fall asleep, or at least he doesn’t think so until soft footsteps rouse him back to full consciousness. The only person who walks that quietly is Bruce, and sure enough, the man steps out onto the alcove of the balcony.
“Dick?” And, wow, his eyes are bloodshot, he really needs a shave, and he just looks haggard. It’s even worse than after that hideous week with the Court of Owls, or that other hideous week during the Joker debacle, and that’s saying something.
“You look like crap,” Dick says.
Bruce really must be exhausted, because his eyes widen and he almost looks startled a moment, before nodding with a slight, rueful smile. “Feels like it.”
This time it’s Dick who is all googly-eyed, because that’s practically garrulous, as far as Bruce goes.
Clearing his throat, Dick asks, “So... how’s things?”
It’s quickly back to business as Bruce turns serious. “There were no casualties or major injuries from the attacks, and the GCPD’s cleared most of the structural damage.”
“And March?”
Bruce’s eyes harden. “I managed to track down and destroy a few of his hide-outs. But I haven’t found him yet.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll turn up again,” Dick says, shrugging. Maybe he should be more angry that his tormentor is still out there, but he’d rather known, deep inside, that this was how things would go. It’s how they always went. “Seems inevitable.”
“I’m not going to stop looking.”
Of course not, Dick thinks; he hardly needs to speak it out loud. A silence settles over them, and Dick prepares to break it with further awkward small talk, but then it’s Bruce’s turn to clear his throat.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better than I’ve been in weeks."
Bruce stares down at him intently, and it’s a little unnerving. Dick gets to his feet, waving a hand over himself, just to put them both on an equal footing, and to show that really, he isn’t too bad at all.
“When March said that he...” Bruce begins, stiltedly. “Did he—did he hurt you in any way, Dick?”
“Other than forcing me through my very own Talon initiation?” Dick retorts. He softens, after a beat. “No. He didn’t touch me, if that’s what you mean. He’s just a loser, Bruce. You can’t let him get to you.”
Bruce exhales sharply through his nose. A few seconds pass before he speaks again.
“I never did, before. Everything he claimed about my parents—about being my brother—was so obviously a lie. But when he said that about you...”
Dick’s heart clenches, because there’s a strange note in Bruce’s voice; a mix of uncertainty and possessiveness and something else he can’t quite identify, something that hits him straight in the chest.
“... I wanted to kill him.” And it’s not a confession for how matter-of-fact Bruce makes it sound.
Dick’s breath catches, quick and sharp. “Bruce...”
“More than that, I was angry at myself, Dick.” He drops his gaze, staring at the wrought-iron railings. “Angry that I had ruined what we had, without ever being honest and forthright with you.”
Bruce steps closer and, to Dick’s shock, wraps his arms around the younger man’s waist. Bruce always has an intense look to him, not just when he’s in Batman-mode, but now his blue eyes seem even darker and more focused than usual. Or maybe it’s just the fact that they have never been this intimately in each other’s space before.
“Dick,” he starts, and Dick feels the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, at the low, husky tone in Bruce’s voice. “I didn’t say this enough, before. I thought you already knew... how I feel. How much I care about you. How much I love you.”
It isn’t often that Dick is lost for words, but this—what—
Bruce isn’t done. One of his hands reaches up cradle Dick’s face.
“I was wrong—”
Dick’s eyes widen even more than they already have, because what—
“I should’ve been honest and open with you,” Bruce continues quietly. “With all of you—but especially you.”
“Bruce...” Dick starts, and falters. Damn the man for figuring out the one way to shut him up: a double-hit of an actual apology, and a hug.
“I want things to be right between us.” Bruce presses his lips to Dick’s other cheek, the one he isn’t stroking with his thumb.
And Dick feels the breath go out of him, because this seems to be escalating past an innocent hug. The last time they touched, other than the day of his rescue, was what? When Batman untied him after the Joker’s grotesque dinner party in the Bat-Cave?
They’d certainly never hugged before. Because men like them never exchange that kind of affection. Maybe an occasional shoulder pat. If that.
Now—a kiss?
“Bruce,” Dick starts again, somehow managing to push the man’s name out of his painfully dry mouth. He’s all tapped out of words after that, but fortunately, he is saved from having to figure out a response as the balcony’s French doors are flung wide open.
“Father!” Damian barks, stomping in. “Tell Todd to stop—”
Almost simultaneously, Jason storms up, “Bruce! Your little demon-spawn is a piece of—”
Both boys fall silent as they take in the scene, eyes widening and jaws dropping simultaneously—and Dick blushes furiously as he realises that even with the interruption, Bruce hasn’t let go of him.
One big hand is still wrapped around Dick’s waist, the other cradles his face, and their bodies are pressed too close together for it to be anything other than compromising.
Bruce, of all people, is still holding him.
“Uh,” Jason says, breaking the silence that is probably short but feels eternal for how completely awkward it is. “We’ll come back later.”
They back away rather quickly. Just as well, because Dick can’t deal with their brotherly squabbles right now.
“Bruce,” he says, again, helplessly. Because the truth is, he likes this. Likes being held by Bruce. But getting used to the feeling doesn’t seem safe at all.
Even if Bruce has just apologised, and even if Dick’s recent brush with death has taught him that no conflict is worth losing Bruce over.
“I should go deal with them,” Bruce says.
Dick expects him to pull back, but he seems to hesitate. His brows are furrowed; almost as if he’s wrestling within himself about something.
And then he’s suddenly kissing Dick’s mouth—lightly, fleetingly—before pulling away and striding back into the Manor.
Dick reaches for the nearest chair and sits down rather heavily, touching his lips gingerly.
The goddamn Batman just kissed him.
***
He heads up to his room for a nap, feeling suddenly winded, and only reappears downstairs in the late afternoon.
“You missed lunch, Master Richard,” Alfred says, entering the kitchen as Dick pokes around. “Shall I fix you a snack?”
“That’d be great, Alfred.”
It’s only a few minutes before Dick is sitting at the dining table with rye crackers, homemade hummus, and a glass of fresh apple juice. Alfred sits down across him with a cup of tea, watching quietly as Dick nibbles at his food. His appetite isn’t all back yet.
“If you don’t mind me saying, sir,” Alfred says after a while. “You seem rather disquieted.”
Dick doesn’t quite manage to not look guilty. “Do I?”
“Given that you have taken a rest without my explicit encouragement, I should say that, yes, something does seem to be bothering you.” The elderly butler raises an eyebrow at him. “And you tend to be more loquacious, besides.”
Dick laughs, just a little huff. “Bruce and I had a... chat earlier,” he adds, after a moment.
“A long overdue one, I would gather.”
“I guess.”
Alfred sets his tea cup down and looks intently at Dick. “I have never seen Master Bruce so off-balance, as when he felt that he no longer had your trust and kinship.”
“He's always had those things,” Dick says, shaking his head. “Even when he makes me so incredibly frustrated with his thick-headedness. Why won’t he just let us into his head, once in a while?”
“He struggles to be forthright,” Alfred agrees. “But he has tried more with you, than he has with most others, Master Richard. Do not underestimate his regard for you, and do not think that he doesn’t appreciate yours for him.”
Dick raises an eyebrow. “And how would you describe that 'regard', Alfred?”
Alfred’s expression is rather too shrewd for Dick’s liking, so he ducks his head and busies himself with his snack.
“You were a young man full of grief when you came to us,” Alfred says slowly, after a while. “But unlike Master Bruce, you chose not to dwell on tragedy. You chose to celebrate your parents, and to honour them. You chose to live. And Master Bruce needed that as much as you did. He needed you to show him another way. To be his friend.”
Dick thinks back to what Bruce had said so many months ago—you still are saving me, every day—
“And even as your friendship deepened, I saw a young man develop a great affection for his mentor—and what some might call innocent teenage interest.”
Dick whips his head up at that, eyes widening. He’d never told anyone about that. And apparently, he hadn’t hidden it as well as a he thought. “You knew?”
“Only because I am an old man who has come to recognise such things very easily,” Alfred says with a slight, knowing smile. “Master Bruce, as you are well aware, can be very oblivious to such matters, even as he is perceptive to everything else.”
“Yeah,” Dick mutters, pushing his plate away, and folding his arms over the space left behind. He knows that side of Bruce way too well.
“In any case, you became an adult in age, emancipated once and for all. And you saw that you would need to leave the auspices of stately Wayne Manor, and the tutelage of Batman, if you were to become a man in your own right—if Master Bruce was to see you as a man in your own right.”
It all hits a bit too close to home, even if Dick has never even admitted these things to himself. He sips at his juice, just to give himself something to do.
“And indeed, you came back to us as a man full grown, a hero on your own standing,” Alfred continues. "And Master Bruce, I think, realised that you were no longer his younger friend and protégé, but his equal. And it always seemed to me that in the years that followed, your affection...”
Dick sneaks his eyes back up at Alfred, holding his breath at what might come next.
“... Did not so much fade away, as evolve. To my eyes, you grew to love Master Bruce despite his flaws; perhaps even because of them.”
It’s a few long seconds before Dick can exhale, and respond with a shaky laugh. “So is Perceptiveness 101 a thing at butler school, or acting school?”
Alfred’s lips quirk in a small smile as he stands to clear the table. “Can it not be both?”
“What about Bruce? Have his feelings evolved too?”
“I rather suspect you might already know that answer, Master Richard,” Alfred says lightly, even as he steps out with the used crockery, leaving Dick alone again to wrestle with his thoughts.
***
It’s been five days since he woke up, and six days since Christmas, and Dick’s slept more in the last week than he has in the last year. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be to get back on the streets, and back to his life—or whatever remains of it, anyway.
There was a little survey in that morning’s Gotham Gazette, a sort of year in perspective thing, questions like “what was your biggest achievement,”, “where did most of your money go,”, and so on.
Did you suffer illness or injury? Oh, just multiple stab wounds, and those were just Tuesdays.
It’s strange to look back and think about how much has gone wrong in the last year. He's broke. His biological great-grandfather turned out to be a homicidal jackass. Haly’s circus is destroyed. Two of his best childhood friends are dead.
The bad guys hurt his family, and isn’t that the biggest understatement.
He’s ready to move on.
***
“Hundred bucks says Harley Quinn shows up and takes a sledgehammer to the giant ball,” Red Robin says, from their vantage point atop Wayne Tower.
“I see your one hundred and raise you Poison Ivy getting her sex pollen on for a New Year’s orgy,” Nightwing replies, smirking.
“Ugh,” Tim fake shudders. His grimace turns into a sly grin. “Though I guess you wouldn’t mind something like that.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Dick replies cheerfully.
Even through the mask, Tim’s sceptical look is obvious. “Really? Because I heard you and Batman kissed and made up.”
“Nah, no kissing.” Mostly because he is just not going there right now. “But we’re good, yeah.”
Tim nudges him. “Just took you being kidnapped by his evil brother, huh?”
“Well, at least this catastrophe brought us all together,” Dick says.
“Seriously,” Tim says, just before their radios buzz to life.
“Police scanners are reporting a Crazy Quilt disturbance on the junction of Broadway, sirs.”
“I’m on it, Penny-One,” Tim says and with a little wave to Nightwing, leaps off.
Dick can’t blame him for jumping at the opportunity for a little action, even if a loser like Crazy Quilt is almost not worth any effort. New Year’s Eve has been decidedly low-key and disaster-free so far, and though Damian and Tim and Jason might find themselves restless, Dick is just fucking relieved. Gotham could use an actual celebration right now.
Batman shows up a few minutes later, and Dick’s stomach seems to get overtaken by a crazed flock of butterflies.
“Is it jinxing things to say that we might get through this unscathed?” he jokes, though it’s not really a joke if he does actually jinx it. He surreptitiously crosses his fingers, just in case.
“One minute left,” Batman says. “We might just make it.”
“Well, well. Is that optimism I hear?” Nightwing grins, impressed.
“One of my new year’s resolutions.”
“Wanna hear mine?”
Bruce looks at him, even as the countdown starts in the background, and Dick’s heart skips a beat, because he’ll never stop being that young Robin craving Batman’s attention.
He takes a deep breath, and watches straight ahead as the gigantic time ball continues its descent down the flagpole.
“The Joker said my biggest problem was that I had too much faith in people. Well, I’m going to keep on doing that. Some people are going to disappoint you, because they’re flawed human beings, and that’s just life. But sometimes? People will surprise you.”
"Nineteen... eighteen..."
Dick turns to face Bruce with a slight smile. It’s hard to see the other man’s expression through the cowl, but his mouth seems to tighten, just a bit. Almost as if he’s nervous of what Dick is about to say.
Well, he’s got nothing to worry about. Dick takes one of Batman’s gauntlets in his own.
“Maybe I’m just a stupid optimist. But I don’t really care. I’m going to keep on believing in people. I’m gonna believe in us, okay?” His fingers tighten around Batman’s gloved hand, squeezing.
“Five... four…”
Batman nods, and squeezes back, his mouth curving up ever so slightly. “Happy—” he clears his throat, and starts again. “Happy new year, Dick.”
“...One...”
And as Gotham Square erupts in fireworks and cheers, Nightwing and Batman start the new year together, with a kiss.
Chapter Text
Nightwing lands gracefully in the alleyway, and tips a hand to his head in a mock salute. “Evenin’.”
Batman doesn’t look up from where he’s tying up a duo of unconscious men in ski masks. “Nightwing.”
They’ve got a minute of alone time, maybe, before cops arrive to pick these guys up. “You done for the night?”
Batman straightens up. “I need to speak with the Commissioner.”
That could take ten minutes, or it could take a few hours, depending on the situation in Gotham. Some days, there’s always a fire of some kind to put out. Nightwing steps closer and looks up at Batman with a flirty little smile, anyway.
“Well,” he begins slowly. “If you haven’t got any other plans after that, you could come by the loft. Spend the night.”
Batman is inscrutable beneath the cowl and its white-out eye lenses. But it doesn’t take him long to reply at all. “Sounds like a plan.”
Nightwing fires his grapple skyward, feeling a little fluttery. “Say hi to Gordon for me,” he calls out, and if he has a bit more fun than usual leaping across buildings and flying off roofs, well, who can blame him?
***
When Dick steps out of the bathroom, rubbing his damp ear with a towel, he finds Batman standing in his bedroom, shedding his armour. Most of it is on the floor already, neatly folded—cape, cowl, belt, boots, gauntlets.
Only the slightest of moonlight falls into the room; at this time of night, even Old Gotham is mostly asleep, but even in the darkness, Bruce is a sight for sore eyes.
“Hi,” Dick says, with a little smile.
Bruce tosses his shirt to the ground, and smiles back—just a little twist of the lips, but Dick knows what it is—as he strides over. “Hi.”
He doesn’t waste time drawing Dick into his arms for an embrace, and wow, it’s still surreal and new, to go from barely touching to hugging all the time.
But Dick is more than happy with this turn of events. There’s nothing better than being in the intimate, warm space between Bruce’s chest and arms, and tipping his head up for a kiss that is given without hesitation.
The kiss turns quickly from chaste to near pornographic, and it doesn’t help that Dick is just wearing a towel around his waist because Bruce—Batman—can’t possibly miss the fact that Dick’s arousal is pressing up against his stomach.
And Dick can’t help gasping a little, into their wet, sloppy kisses, because it’s like he’s seventeen years old, all over again; a kid with a hero worship complex and a real bad pining crush on his inscrutable mentor.
Except it’s not quite like seventeen, because Bruce’s arms tighten around him and his chest rumbles as if in approval, and wow, that is not helping Dick’s situation right now.
It’s a few more minutes before they pull apart, heaving, mouths red and sticky.
“Do you still want this?” Bruce asks quietly, rubbing Dick’s back. Do you still want me?
For something that he hadn’t even allowed himself to consider until very recently, Dick doesn’t have to think as he meets Bruce’s eyes. “More than anything I’ve wanted in my life.”
Bruce sucks in a breath, making the smallest of sounds, before pressing his lips to Dick’s brow, then his eyes; soft kisses trailing down Dick’s jaw and his throat as big hands stroke up his bare back and chest. Soft and chaste, the very opposite of their kissing earlier, and for all that Dick is used to leaping across buildings and jumping from great heights, none of that makes him gasp so desperately for breath as this does.
And even as Bruce touches him everywhere with his hands and lips, he guides them over to the bed, that single-minded focus he has as Batman now intent on driving him to push Dick gently onto the bed. Dick’s back barely hits the mattress before Bruce divests him of the towel around his waist, pulling off his own leggings and boxer jock as he climbs up on the bed after Dick.
The man has moves, Dick has to give him that.
He’s seen Bruce naked before—sort of. Half-second glimpses in the cave showers, once or twice when Bruce was injured and he’d had to help Alfred get him out of the armour. But he’d never really looked.
Now Bruce is looming over him, naked and aroused, watching Dick with an expression in his blue eyes that could only be described as hungry.
It’s too much and not enough and Dick meets his partner more than halfway when his mouth descends for a messy, open-mouthed kiss.
“Bruce,” Dick gasps, panting heavily when they finally separate, minutes later, but whatever words he’d readied on the tip of his tongue fall away into a moan as Bruce, breathing just as hard as Dick, moves to quickly kiss his way down Dick’s chest.
And Bruce’s hands, god, his hands are everywhere. Stroking his thighs, teasing his nipples. Tormenting Dick together with his mouth that’s laving all over Dick’s hip bones while studiously avoiding the younger man’s erection.
Dick unclenches one hand from where it has a death grip on his sheets, moving instead to slide into Bruce’s dark hair. Bruce’s hair is a little longer in the front, and mussed up from the cowl; not long enough for a proper grip, but Dick likes holding onto it, anyway.
Because even that simple, tender touch makes Bruce gasp and close his eyes. Before opening them quickly, with that look in his eyes, the one that remains frightening and amazing even after Dick first realised what it was.
Love. Desire.
All for… him?
Bruce doesn’t stop watching Dick through half-lidded eyes, as his mouth presses the softest of kisses on the sensitive head of Dick’s very aroused cock. And Dick doesn’t want to stop looking at Bruce, either; he wants to watch Bruce lick him and take him in his mouth, because fuck, damn and fuck—but he can’t stop his eyes from fluttering to a close, and he can’t stop the loud moans from escaping past his lips. Can’t stop himself from shuddering and squirming and thinking that for all the few times anyone had done this for him before—well, it had always felt incredibly good, but never quite as mind-blowing as this, right here, right now.
Bruce between his legs, his tongue licking a stripe over the underside of his cock, before sucking it in again, his free hand reaching out for Dick’s, the one still clutching the sheets, and holding it.
It’s all too much; the hand-holding, the raw desire and love on Bruce’s face while he’s hollowing his cheeks and going down on him, on Dick’s freaking bed in the run-down loft, naked and beautiful, giving him a goddamn blow job like nothing else in the world is important except the two of them—
—All it takes is another deep, warm suck, and Dick comes embarrassingly quickly, his entire body shuddering.
He needs a few moments to desperately suck oxygen into his lungs, and to remember how to string thoughts together. The last time he’d had sex was months ago, with Raya. It’d been nice. Not the best of his life, but he’d enjoyed it.
And it’s not like he likes to think of ex-flings after sex, but this. This, though.
Dick isn’t going to forget it for a long, long time.
It’s a long few moments before he can get his body to listen to him again. The endorphins make his movements a little sluggish as he reaches over Bruce, who has rolled over to lie down beside him, to grab the lube and condoms he’d left on his nightstand earlier.
“Your turn,” Dick says with a soft, lazy grin, as he drops them onto Bruce’s chest, before turning over to get on his hands and knees.
Thunderstruck—that’s how Bruce looks, and isn’t that a sight. They have a bit of a moment, then, as he stares at Dick and Dick stares meaningfully back. But finally, Bruce rises up to cover Dick’s body with his own, fumbling with the lube.
Dick has never done this before, but it doesn’t matter because Bruce is warm, and strong, and there is no other place where he’ll be safer. Not least because now, he knows just how much he’s loved and wanted. By Bruce.
Bruce presses a kiss to the back of his neck, making him shiver, and then another to the delicate skin behind his left ear.
“I want to see your face,” Bruce whispers into his ear, his breath hot and moist, even as his hand tips Dick’s chin up and left to catch his mouth in a hot, wet kiss full of teeth and tongue.
And Dick returns it with fervour, allowing Bruce to manoeuvre them down onto the bed, with Dick on his back again and their bodies pressed together. They don’t bother to stop for breath, which is an unexpected but welcome outcome of Dick’s old lung capacity training with Batman. From the way Bruce moans into their kisses, it doesn’t sound like he cares, either. Even as they breathe into each other’s mouths, Dick feels one of his knees being pushed up to his chest, while the other leg is bent and splayed to the side.
“Beautiful,” Bruce mutters, pulling away to once again sit back. “So beautiful…”
An intense blush spreads down Dick’s face to his neck and chest at the compliment, because who knew Bruce Wayne could be just as effusive without the Brucie act.
Even as he shudders at the feel of Bruce’s thick, calloused fingers beginning to probe him. “Bruce, wait—oh—”
Bruce’s eyes widen as his fingers hit their mark, and he’s starting to realise what Dick had been trying to tell him just a second before. “Dick, you—you’re—”
“In the shower, earlier,” Dick admits, ducking his head to hide his blush. “Didn’t want us to waste time.”
He gropes for a condom, sitting up as he tears it open. Bruce is still very much aroused, and now looking a bit shocked at the idea of Dick fingering himself in preparation to be fucked.
Dick takes the chance to flash him a nervous, lopsided smile, shuffling over to run his hand over his cock and help him get the condom on. And, wow, Starfire had used her fingers on Dick before, so this whole thing isn’t entirely new to him (never mind the furtive reading up he did over the last few days), and Dick had always figured Bruce was well-endowed, but having that inside of him is going to be interesting.
The lubricant is cool on his fingers as he rubs it over Bruce’s erection. He could just keep on doing this, probably, because the way even these mild touches have Bruce trembling and gasping is breath-taking. And that would be fun, too, making Bruce come like this.
But then he’s being pushed onto his back again, one knee slung over Bruce’s shoulder, and the other leg wrapped around his waist. Bruce shifts to loom over him once more, sliding his hand into Dick’s hair as he gazes down intently.
He takes his time to lube Dick up again, just in case, and there’s something about the gentle care in the way he studies Dick’s face, making sure he’s okay, that makes him kind of warm and gooey. They aren’t really talking, but it doesn’t feel weird or awkward, just companionable.
Bruce keeps his eyes on Dick’s even when he begins to slowly slide his cock in. God, he really is big. It hurts, a little, because even their combined efforts at prodigious preparation couldn’t have prepared anyone for that, and Dick has to bite his lip and concentrate on his breathing.
But Bruce is slow and gentle, and even if this feeling of fullness is strange and maybe a little uncomfortable, Dick thinks that the look on Bruce’s face—like he can’t quite believe any of this is happening—is completely worth it.
It’s a good thing Dick’s already come once, anyway, because even armed with the many breathing techniques Batman has taught him over the years, staying relaxed is taking some work.
“Is this—“ Bruce starts, stroking his hand down Dick’s side.
“I’m good,” Dick looks back at him through his eyelashes, twisting his lips up in a reassuring smile.
“I—I don’t want to hurt you.”
Dick reaches down to squeeze Bruce’s hand. “I’m a big boy, Bruce. I can take it. I mean, no lie, you’re freaking huge but—”
Bruce shuts his eyes, his own breathing sounding as laboured as Dick’s. “I don’t think I can—“
“Then don’t,” Dick breathes, and oh boy, he never thought he’d ever say these words outside of a fever dream, but— “Just fuck me. Please.”
Bruce’s eyes fly open, pupils dark and wide as he inhales sharply. Slowly, he begins to move. So slowly, oh so slowly, and for something so strange and new, it’s starting to make the pit of Dick’s stomach flutter and warm up again.
“Say it again.” And even if he’s panting and thrusting into Dick between his words, Bruce’s voice is low and deep enough that it’s almost like Batman giving him an order, and Dick can’t help but moan because isn’t that one of his teenage fantasies made real.
“Fuck me,” he rasps. “Fuck me, Batman. Faster. Harder.”
And Bruce lets out a primal sort of noise, but he does as Dick asks, his rhythm quickening, and soon everything starts to melt into a blur of intermingled heat and pleasure. Especially once Bruce hits his prostate—and fuck, that hasn't happened since that one time with Kori and Dick had forgotten just how incredible it feels.
He isn't sure he's going to outlast Bruce, at this rate. But at least Bruce is groaning and gasping over him, even as his thrusts become more erratic and out of control. It’s a complete turn on, and Dick twists up to lick at the sweat trickling down his neck and chest.
"Nnngh, Dick," Bruce groans, and the raw hunger in his voice makes Dick’s heart skip and stutter.
"You feel so good," Dick babbles, letting his head fall back on the bed, tightening his hands over the headboard he's desperately hanging on to. “God, Bruce…”
And Bruce reaches down between them to palm Dick’s cock, and it's too much. Bruce in him, around him, gasping his name, and he comes for the second time that night. Bruce follows soon after, before Dick can feel bad about it; eyes tightening shut in the most beautiful, vulnerable expression he has ever seen on the older man’s face. He tries to commit it to memory, but the throes of a second orgasm make it difficult to do anything other than smile drowsily.
Bruce rests his head in the crook of Dick's neck, as they both try to even out their breathing again. It'll get uncomfortable in a while to have Bruce’s considerable weight on him and his (seriously impressive, like whoa) cock still in him. For now, though, in the immediate afterglow, Dick wraps his arms around his partner and basks in the shared intimacy.
"You're amazing," Bruce murmurs in his ear, still trying to catch his breath. "So goddamn amazing."
Dick's grin widens at the fact that he’s managed to make Bruce swear, even a little. He turns his head just so to press a kiss to his lover's cheek, feeling very happy and very content as he whispers, "Love you, Bruce."
***
Dick ends up taking his second shower of the night, but Bruce joins him this time. Just as well because Dick gets his chance to get Bruce off with his hand and even out the orgasm count.
It’s still surreal, though. He never really thought Bruce would engage in sexy domestic activities, as it were. He’d figured that having a relationship with Bruce wouldn’t be much different from usual, except maybe the occasional kiss or make out.
But now he’s standing in his rundown loft kitchen, whistling to himself because he just got laid and it was awesome. The lights are dimmed low, and he’s fixing them each a sandwich as a post-coital snack. Good thing Alfred had made one of his stealth-visits recently, to stock up Dick’s fridge with actual food, or he’d be serving Bruce stale crackers and ketchup.
They end up scarfing their sandwiches down on the couch. Bruce finishes first, setting his plate on the coffee table before shifting closer to Dick and wrapping an arm around his waist. He’s warm where their sides press together, and Dick’s body leans in without even really thinking about it. This—is another one of those surprising things he’s learning about Bruce in the last few weeks; Bruce overcompensating for a previous lack of physical affection with a veritable overdose of it (by Bruce standards, anyway).
“Guess you just like me for my cooking, huh,” Dick mumbles laughingly, turning his head to bury his face in the crook of Bruce’s neck. He smells like mint soap and leather, and Dick can’t get enough of it.
“Amongst other things.” He’s still as chatty as he always was, but Dick can feel him smiling into his hair and that is enough to make him shiver. He’s seen Bruce flirt loads of times before, but it’s another thing entirely to be on the receiving end of it.
“I’ve been thinking about Amusement Mile,” Bruce says, a minute later, when Dick has gone back to finishing off his sandwich.
“Yeah?” Dick says, as casually as he can manage, because he doesn’t exactly want to go into this. Ever, if he can help it.
“It was a good idea.”
“Bruce, are you trying to ruin my good mood, or…?”
Bruce shifts, pulling back slightly even while keeping his hold around Dick’s waist. “Dick, listen. Look at me.”
And damn the man, because Dick can’t help himself.
“Gotham needs Amusement Mile,” Bruce says, completely serious. He touches a palm to Dick’s cheek. “Let me help you bring it back. Please.”
“Bruce.” And Dick closes his eyes, wondering just how he feels about it all at this very moment.
It’s not like he’s a stranger to trauma. He’ll never forget that day at the circus, when the ropes snapped and he had to watch, horror stricken, as his parents’ bodies fell to the ground...
He never got over it. But he moved on. And he’d moved on from the fiasco at Amusement Mile, too, even if he’ll never forget how the Joker had slaughtered Jimmy and Raya just to destroy Nightwing.
Came damn near it, too.
But maybe it’s time to move on from this, too.
Dick opens his eyes, pursing his lips as he looks back at Bruce. “You know, Bruce, you don’t have to do this. I don’t expect it.”
Bruce doesn’t break his gaze. “I want to. For you. For us. For Damian, Tim, Jason, Barbara. For everyone in Gotham. We could all use a little joy in our lives, right now.”
Dick’s chest flutters at that, and it hurts, just a little. “They’ll try to mess it all up again, you know,” he says. “Whether it’s the Joker or the Hatter or the Court, there’s always someone.”
“Probably,” Bruce agrees. “There always is. But we won’t stop ourselves from trying, anyway. We’ll just pick ourselves up, and try again.”
He presses a soft kiss to Dick’s lips. “You taught me that, Dick.”
How can Dick say no to that? He can’t.
But he’s okay with it.
“You’re a sap, you know that?”
“Hmm.”
Dick slides his empty plate on the coffee table, deciding he’ll deal with the dishes tomorrow. Even the reminder of his struggles over the last few months isn’t enough to ruin his good mood. He’s still dead broke, Gotham is still the same mess as it always is, but...
He’s happy.
Getting to his feet, he holds his hand out to Bruce. “Bed?”
Bruce takes it, rising as well, and follows Dick back into the bedroom. “Right behind you.”